


The Golden and the Black

by Alystraea



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Romance, F/M, Family Drama, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Genderbending, Ghosts, Guilt and remorse, Hurt/Comfort, Long Lost/Secret Relatives, Past Character Death, Past Lives, Past Relationship(s), Redemption, Romance, Secret Children, Secret Marriage, Secret Relationship, Sexual Repression, Sexual Tension, Some Humor, Unrequited Love, elves being angsty, elves being noble, elves being silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-05-03 11:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 48
Words: 323,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5289005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alystraea/pseuds/Alystraea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maeglin, the traitor of Gondolin. Lusted for his first cousin, betrayed and destroyed the secret kingdom, died a villain’s death, and probably will languish in the Halls of the Dead for all eternity. But wait. It’s been 6000 years, and Námo does something unheard of. Maeglin awakens in a new body in Middle Earth. It is the late Third Age. There's a valley of elves, and a reborn, much-hated golden-haired balrog slayer...<br/>And Maeglin is now... an elfmaid.<br/>[Sept 2017 - small additions to the last two chapters.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Silmarillion Prompts](https://archiveofourown.org/works/802436) by [EbonyKitty552](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EbonyKitty552/pseuds/EbonyKitty552). 



Námo stands in a radiant pool of light at the centre of his halls, shrouded in his hooded cloak, looking at the innumerable rooms and chambers spiralling around and above him into the heavens in many layers. His halls lie to the west of the Blessed Realm. Large as the soaring white structure may seem from without, it gives no clue as to the vast, almost infinite space that lies within.

The air amid the swirling light and shadows is heavy with the voices of multitudes—cries and laments and sobs and sighs, blending together into a heartrending chorus, sorrowful yet strangely melodious, for the voices of the Eldar are fair.

Across Belegaer, the Great Sea, a white city encircled by high mountains has fallen. The souls of slain Eldar are flooding into the halls of the dead. The Lord of Mandos watches them float in through the white dome above, each with their own light, some dimmer, some brighter. His maiar guide each soul into its own appointed space, some higher and nearer the brilliance of the white dome above, some lower.

Námo waits for one. It comes finally. A small, dark, swirling shape. The vala catches the dark _fëa_ in his hand as it sinks heavily downwards to where he stands. He hears its wail of torment and hate and despair as its shadowy form swirls wildly across his palm.

It is almost black… almost, but not quite. At its heart, still a dim golden glow, flickering and fading. Compassion sits with judgement on the brow of Námo.

A portal in the ground yawns open before him, to a vast dark space where many chambers lay. He descends below, gliding down upon the voices of the wretched who sojourn there. He breathes upon his palm, and sends the dark soul floating into a chamber where it takes form. The form of a broken body fallen from a great height, its edges blurred and shadowy. Where the heart should be, the faint light. He breathes again, over the glowing heart.

_“Let the release of pain begin.”_

Vairë the Weaver, consort of Námo, raises a hand as anguished sobs come from the form, its black edges eddy and shift. Upon the walls of the chamber various images of a life begin to appear in rapid succession. A dark forest. A dark, angry face. A woman falling with a spear in her shoulder. A golden-haired beauty. A torture chamber. Dragon fire on darkened mountain heights.

Small wisps of shadow float forth from the dark soul like smoke, and are sucked down into a black abyss below Námo’s feet, the pool of all the pain and grief of the Eldar.

“ _The pain and guilt is deep,”_ the vala says to the grey-robed maia who tends the souls at this level. _“Let it purge for a millennium.”_

The Lord of the Dead then ascends towards the dome of his halls, the rooms brighter and whiter the higher he rises. At the top levels, the souls of the innocent glow, the bright blossoms in his garden. Children and infants, cruelly slain. Their small forms are white and gold, but at their hearts, the crimson stain of their violent deaths.

The vala is waiting again. _It comes._ He receives in his palm a white, shimmering shape that floats lightly into the dome. It lies there, swirling white and gold, flecked with crimson. He cradles it in his hand, feeling it warm and restless, admiring its radiance.  He breathes the love of Eru upon it and wafts it into a chamber near the bright dome. A form takes shape. Though shining bright, it seems as broken as the dark one had been. Vivid streaks of crimson flicker through the form, like terrible lacerations.

The Weaver has arrived. On the walls of the bright soul’s chamber she shapes images of white towers falling, of a mountain path along a ravine, and a vast black-winged demon with a fiery whip.

“ _Heal_ ,” Námo commands the shining soul. “ _Rest.”_

His spirit is strong, thinks the Lord of Mandos. He will not be long in these halls.

 

On the walls of the chamber, images appear of a mountain pass. A backdrop of high peaks topped with snow.

A vast eagle bears a broken body in once-bright elven armour in its claws. He lifts it up from the chasm, beating his mighty wings. From the claws, still-bright golden hair hangs down, scorched and dark with blood.

A fair elven lady, her hair a lighter gold, receives the bloodied and burned body into her arms, weeping the terrible, rending tears of a mother bereft. She rocks back and forth on her knees in grief, clutching the slain knight to herself. The group of elves encircling the two weep inconsolably.

A mortal man tenderly loosens the lady’s arms and coaxes the body away from her with gentle whispers in her ear.

The refugees of Gondolin leave behind a cairn of stone, hurriedly raised. On it, the stems of golden celandine, plucked from the wayside and laid with loving hands, tremble in the mountain breeze.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE PROCEEDING! (Note added mid-2016, updated mid-2017):  
> 1\. The M rating - I began with a Teen rating, then thought midway that the themes and situations might warrant M just to be safe. But sorry, friends, there be neither smut nor slash and little gore in this fic, so if you're into all that you'll have to get your jollies elsewhere.  
> 2\. I respect canon and do responsible research, but I take mild liberties with characters and events. E.g. in this fic, my Glorfindel is youthful, fearless, full of joy but... maybe not that wise; born in Beleriand; never took part in the first kinslaying or the Oath, and thus gets to fight in the War of Wrath. Eöl is not of the Iathrim in this fic, but led his small tribe of dark elves west into Beleriand in the years not long before the return of the Noldor, and hence he is darker and more savage than your average Sinda would be.  
> 3\. I've done my best with the elvish, but it's still iffy. Let me know if you see inaccuracies. In March 2016 I discovered the translation forum on realelvish.proboards.com and found a great help in dreamingfifi. (A resource like this is such a boon for the Tolkien fanfic writer who does not wish to produce inadvertent howlers. Do support it!) Wherever I have used dreamingfifi’s input, I have reflected it in my glossary notes. BUT wherever she is NOT acknowledged, the errors and artistic licence are all mine! E.g. I use words from Tolkien's early Qenya and Gnomish. I know that linguistically these early forms were pretty different languages, and mixing such words with Quenya and Sindarin should be a no-no... but I would prefer to use a word that originated from Tolkien than coin one of my own.  
> 4\. I hope you will enjoy the main characters and their relationship, but here is a guide for those interested in the cameos of certain characters... ;)  
> Finrod's cameos are in "A Question Answered", "Meetings Beyond the Sea", "A Tapestry of Three Worlds", and... but that would be a spoiler.  
> Thranduil appears in "A Question Answered", "All in the Family", "Forest Shadows", "The Spirits of Yule", "Crossroads", "A Tapestry of Three Worlds", and the "Epilogue".  
> Legolas makes appearances in "Secret Rings", "All in the Family", "The Last Elflings in Ennor", "The Spirits of Yule", "Crossroads", "A Tapestry of Three Worlds", "Close Encounters", "Truth Will Out", and "Friends in High Places".  
> Maglor is in "Dreams and Demons", "Songs by Starlight", "All in the Family", "Last Days in Imladris", "A Tapestry of Three Worlds", and the "Epilogue".  
> Faramir is in "Last Elflings in Ennor" and "The Age of Men".
> 
> In the chapters that follow, I assumed readers are familiar with both the Sindarin and Quenya names of some of the characters and places, but I've added a list here in case it helps.  
> SINDARIN - QUENYA  
> Araw Tauron – Oromë  
> Aredhel – Irissë  
> Ecthelion – Ehtelion  
> Ennor – Endórë  
> Fëanor – Fëanáro  
> Finarfin - Arafinwë  
> Fingolfin - Nolofinwë  
> Finrod – Artafindë - Findaráto Ingoldo (Ingo)  
> Gorthaur – Sauron  
> Galadriel – Artanis (Artë)  
> Glorfindel – Laurefindel  
> Gondolin - Ondolindë  
> Gwîr – Vairë (the Weaver)  
> Idril – Itarillë  
> Maedhros – Maitimo  
> Maglor – Makalaurë Kanafinwë  
> Morgoth – Moringotto  
> Pengolodh - Quendingoldo  
> Rog – Rauco  
> Thorondor - Sorontar  
> Turgon – Turukáno
> 
> Now that we have gotten all that out of the way, I hope you'll just relax and enjoy the ride. It will be sometimes serious, sometimes silly (you are warned), sometimes sweet, and hopefully mostly fun.  
> 


	2. Restless in Aman

A white horse galloped swiftly across the sunlit meadow under a clear azure sky. On its back was a rider clothed in white tunic and leggings, golden hair streaming bright in the wind, bow and a quiver of arrows on his back. A series of archery targets were lined up to his left, and he had done this so often with so many different configurations of target that his eyes were dreamy and he could almost have done this run with his eyes shut.

“Faster, Asfaloth!” He nocked an arrow in his bow.

Oromë the Hunter and Manwë watched as the rider hit each target dead centre.

“He is an excellent archer, and Tulkas and Eonwë say that as a swordsman and a warrior he is unsurpassed among the Firstborn,” Oromë was saying. “A little restless at times, but a bright and joyous spirit withal.” He added with the deep rumbling sound like thunder that was a Vala’s laugh, “He leaps from the backs of eagles onto his horse, dives off waterfalls, and teases Huan mercilessly. If you wish to send him, do so before he kills himself or gets killed by my hound, and you have to wait a century to get him back from Námo.” A low growl came from Huan, who lay by his master’s side like a small hill, but his huge tail thumped the ground in amusement.

The elf in white, riding full tilt in the opposite direction, got gracefully to his feet on Asfaloth’s back and was shooting at the targets from that standing position, his golden hair whipping in the wind. His shots split the first arrows cleanly into two. He was of necessity using his other, weaker arm, however, and thinking about what to hunt for lunch besides, and the result was that the second target was off centre by a fraction. He shook his golden head self-deprecatingly. He went back and did a third, flawless run, splitting all the second arrows straight down the lengths of their shafts.

“Show-off. Needlessly destroying good arrows,” grumbled Oromë. “I shall put him to work making new ones for the rest of the day.”

“Call him hence,” said the King of the Valar.

Oromë blew on his horn, and the elf rode up to the Valar, dismounted, and bowed low and reverentially on his knee before them. “Rise, child,” said Manwë.

The elf rose and looked up at the Valar, for they towered over him. He would be counted tall among his kind, and very fair. The hair which gave him his name fell in waves to his waist. It was a rich and radiant gold which seemed to capture the light of the sun. His bright eyes were at that moment the same azure blue as the sky, but they could darken to violet with anger or emotion, and turn blue-grey when he was deep in thought. His form, lithe and slender as his kind were wont to be, held a coiled power, and there was strength in his shoulders. His face was open and true, and its expression was frank and curious rather than awestruck as he gazed into the face of the Elder King.

“Laurefindil of Gondolin, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. In days of old there was a motto writ on your shield. Tell me of it,” said the Lord of the Winds.

“It was _’To serve and to protect_ ,’ _herunya_.”

“Indeed. And the time has come once again for you to serve and protect. For the dark rises again in the lands beyond the Sundering Seas. And one of the line of Turakáno, to whom you did swear allegiance, is in need of your help.”

The elf’s eyes flashed with white fire, and his whole being glowed. His smile made the sunlit meadow seem even brighter. “I shall be glad to go! When shall I depart?”

“Such eagerness.” Manwë smiled upon him. “In this land of bliss where there is no fading, you have felt still a restlessness in your spirit, have you not?”

Glorfindel’s smile faded a little. “Yes.” It had seemed to him that he alone of all the Eldar in Eldamar experienced this discontent, this lack of purpose. It had drawn him into the mountains to train with Tulkas, to the Gardens of Estë to learn healing, to the forests and fields south to hunt with Oromë. And to the shores to gaze east over the waves and dream of the lands where he had been born, and had been slain. Then, to his surprise, whenever he had sought to return to Eldamar to find a means of service – either in the courts of Finarfin King of the Noldor, or with the fleets of Olwë King of the Teleri—the Valar had found various distractions for him. Years herding for Yavanna, or riding with the horses and hounds of Oromë, or sparring with Eonwë or with Tulkas, oft roaming the rugged mountains with the Strong One.

“A voice within speaks to your _fëa_. Of things undone, of a work unfinished.” The Vala leaned over and touched him on the breast. “And _here_ , the merest whisper of a void. We bless you in this, reborn servant of light – in the lands over the sea, there shall be an answer to your deepest question, and there shall be found the missing piece for your soul.”

His brow creased by a slightly puzzled frown, the elf swept a deep and graceful bow to the King of the Valar. “May it be as you have spoken, _herunya_.”

Manwë raised a hand and called over a silver-haired maia with brilliant grey eyes. “Olórin shall be your tutor and companion for a season, till the appointed time to sail, and he shall explain many things to you of the lands to which you shall return.”

They had seen each other, in the Gardens of Estë, but had not spoken. There had always been a warm twinkle in the maia’s grey eyes that Glorfindel liked, and as they smiled at each other now, a friendship was born.

“Almost a millennium has passed since your rebodiment,” Manwë was saying, “And much of it you have spent in training with Tulkas, in the gardens of Estë, or here with Oromë. Go now to Eldamar. Olórin shall journey with you, and you may be with those you love and say your farewells.”

“I thank you, Lord Manwë.” The elf bowed deeply again. He glanced sheepishly at Oromë. “I shall fashion new arrows ere I depart.”

“Good,” huffed Oromë sternly. But the eyes of the Lord of the Hunt rested fondly enough on the elf.

“It is said that you didst once persuade the Strong One to leave his mountains for some days of leisure by the sea,” said Manwë.

“Ye-es,” admitted the elf. “But I can assure you that Lord Tulkas enjoyed it as much as I did. We rode on the waves with the Teleri, and he wrestled with a kraken. Lord Ulmo will vouch for it.”

The thunder of the Valar’s laughter was heard again.

Emboldened, the elf smiled and added, “ _Heruvinya_ , may I have one request?”

“Ask it,” said Oromë with a smile, for the elf’s eyes were upon the Lord of the Hunt.

There was a brighter sparkle in the blue eyes. “May Asfaloth go with me?”

 

Glorfindel had few belongings after a thousand years in Valinor. So much of his time had been spent in the forests of the Lord of the Hunt, in the mountains training with Tulkas the Strong, or travelling remote parts of the undying lands, that his room in Idril’s house at Tol Eressëa did not have a lived-in feel. He packed everything in ten minutes. One bag for all his clothes and personal items, another larger one for his weapons.

He felt Idril’s presence before he actually turned and saw her at the bedchamber door. Her beauty lit up the doorway. A beauty that had once stirred a darkened heart to forbidden desire. A beauty that had incited that dark heart to treachery and brought the hosts of Angband upon a white city hidden in the mountains.

Idril Celebrindal held out a long, slender sword whose hilt and scabbard glittered with crystals and were inlaid with gold. “Take this, _pitya_.”

“Your sword, _Ammë?_ But why?”

In Ennor, they had not used these childhood terms of address since he came of age, when she was the daughter of the king and he was the Lord of the House of the Golden Flower. But strangely, since he had been rebodied, they had fallen back into the habit of his early years.

He made no move to take the sword, but gave her a mock-wounded look. “You would return my gift to me, _Ammë_ of mine?”

She smiled. “Precious as it is to me, it is a shame to keep so fine a sword idle here, where there is no use for it.” She unsheathed the sword and admired the shining blade. “There will be more use for it where you are going.” She slid it back into its scabbard.

“But what should I do with a lady’s sword, too small for me?”

She stooped and slipped her sword into the bag which held his own two magnificent swords, crafted by no other than Aulë himself.

“You may find someone to give it to,” she said as she straightened. “Someone who can use it as it deserves. Someone…” she arranged the collar of his tunic and smoothed out the creases in its front, in that proprietary way mothers seem to have. “…special.”

“You never do give up hoping,” he laughed.

“Well, I have a feeling…” she began playfully but then her voice trailed off. Their eyes met and abruptly she looked away, the smile dying from her face as she seated herself in a chair by the window.

Glorfindel awkwardly stood by her. What could he say that might lift her spirits and make the parting easier? Outside, the sea was dark and vast in the night, and the resonant sound of the waves rolling in reminded them of the distance that would soon yawn between them again. A brilliant white star burned in the heavens, as Idril’s other son, the son of her blood, sailed the night skies in his white ship.

And Glorfindel said the only thing that came to his head at that moment. “Tell me again, _Ammë_ , the story of how you found me.”

A long time ago, in another bedchamber, across the ocean, when Idril’s foster son had barely reached her knee, he had sat on her lap and listened to the sound of the waves at Nevrast as she told him that tale.

The princess raised her eyebrows and looked up at the tall warrior, leaning her cheek on a slender hand. They both knew he could remember every word she had ever said. “Why would you want to hear it again, now?” She laughed lightly, but looked a little discomfited.

He had no idea why he did. With a small shrug and his boyish smile, he said lightly, “A silly whim, is it not? But I just do.”

“Well then, come and sit here, _yonya_ ,”she said in the indulgent, caressing voice she had used for him when he had been tiny.

So with a smile he sat his tall frame on the floor by her, leaning his back against the leg of the chair. She combed her slender fingers through the soft waves of his golden mane, darker and richer than hers, and began in a singsong storytelling voice:

“It was an autumn evening in Nevrast, just after the feast of starlight. I was running, running, running home. I had spent the day dancing along the beach and picking shells, as I often did, and the time had flown away on swift wings. ‘Oh Varda!’ thought I to myself: ‘How cross _Atto_ will be that I am late for dinner again!’

“The stars glittered bright in the sky, and already a light autumn frost sparkled on the ground. I heard a sound some way before I reached the palace steps—a sound, like an angry kitten mewing,” she pulled his earlobe teasingly. “And there—there at the top of the stairs, was a white bundle of cloth, and it was _moving_.

“I caught it ere it could fall down the stairs and saw, peeking out at me from swathes of white linen, the littlest, brightest, summer-blue eyes. You were so tiny, _pitya_ , no more than a month or two old, but already _such_ a little charmer. I was yours from the moment you smiled at me.

“Your white linen cloth was of the finest quality, woven with a pattern of leaves in the border, such as we used to have in Valinor in the palace of my grandfather, the King of the Noldor. And pinned in the cloth was a golden brooch, shaped like a flower with eight fair petals, a sunburst like the yellow flowers that blossom in the gardens of Estë.”

Both cloth and brooch had been lost in the fall of Gondolin, he thought with some regret. They had yielded no clue to his parentage then, but here in Aman he might have traced their origins…

“And I thought, surely this babe is of high-elven and noble birth,” Idril said. “And surely his parents must have loved him so, to leave him at the doors of Prince Turakáno’s palace. They must have wished him to be well-cared for… and safe…” Her voice trailed off a second time.

Glorfindel turned to look up at her, and saw in her eyes the dark haunted look she always had when she remembered. Remembered the day he had been dragged down into the depths of a chasm by his hair.

Kneeling before the chair, he wrapped his arms tightly round her and held her. “Hush, _amya,_ hush,” he murmured. She sobbed and clung to him, recalling the horror of empty blue eyes and a scorched body covered in blood. He frowned as his mind caught wisps of images from her memories. “No, no, not that. Look at me. _Amm_ _ë_ , look at me!” Once he succeeded in possessing her gaze, his luminous smile dispelled the horrors. “See? Here I am. Very much alive.”

Her sobs subsided, and she was able to speak in a level voice. “ _Yonya_ , do not go. Let them send another. Why need it be you?”

“I know not why I was chosen, but _ai!_ How my heart leapt as Manwë spoke! Forgive me—I would not turn aside from this path. It calls to me. And all shall be well, I know it, have no fears.” He added lightly, “You did always long to have news of your grandson, did you not? I wonder if he be more like unto Eärendil, or unto Elwing? When I find him, I shall tell him all the tales of Gondolin. About his grandparents, the peerless Princess of the Silver Foot and the valiant Lord of the Wing. About his august great-grand sire, King Turukáno. And what his imp of a father was like as a boy.”

With a small smile, the Princess said in her crystalline voice, “And tell Elrond that we await him here.”

Glorfindel nodded, and added blithely, “Together he and I shall vanquish this Shadow that is said to arise, and before you know it, I shall be back—with him.”

Idril did not believe this optimistic prophecy in the least, but she smiled bravely. Taking her foster son’s face in her hands, she kissed his forehead, then pushed back his heavy, famous golden mane from his face, and said huskily, “Take care not to wear your hair too long”.

“Yes, my princess. I am relieved you do not insist I shear it off or bun it up,” he joked.

Idril shook her head and smiled wryly. “Knowing you? You’d return to Mandos first,” she said with a catch in her voice.

And abruptly, she embraced him as though a balrog sought to wrest him from her again.

 

 

Late that night, Glorfindel sat on the ledge of his window and stared out across the vast darkness of sky and ocean. His hair, as it streamed in the strong sea breeze, seemed to gather the cold, silver starlight and weave it into the golden glow of a sunrise.

_Your deepest question._

Ever since Manwë had spoken, Glorfindel had pondered that. He had been seeking for a purpose to his second life, and the Valar seemed to have finally given it to him. The only other deep question that he might have was the one he had buried so deep within his heart that he had refused to even think of it for almost one and a half millennia. The question of his parentage.

That must have been what prompted him to ask Idril once more for the tale. And now he had heard it a second time, it disturbed him. Every detail was as she had told him when he was a child. Yet something in her voice, now he heard it as a grown elf, had not rung true.

That Idril could lie to him was inconceivable. But he could not shake it – the conviction that _something_ in the story was false. Or being withheld. Yet she had been so upset just now, that he had not wished to question her further—this remarkable foster _Amil_ , who had loved him more than any mother of his flesh and blood could possibly have.

The answer, said Manwë, lay back there, in the mortal lands beyond the great ocean.

Much of his first life in Ennor had been spent hidden away in a secret mountain kingdom. Now, he might have a chance to search those lands—at least, the parts of them not sunk beneath the waves in the War of Wrath. He allowed himself, for the first time since childhood, to wonder about the ones who had given him life. Leaning his golden head against the hard stones of the tower window, he began to dream as he drowsed. Of being a treasured son lost, stolen away by enemies, and mourned and sought for long years. Of being an unwanted child, discarded, and rejected once more on his return.

He was awakened by a gentle touch on his arm, and saw the first rays of Arien as she lighted the horizon with the blazing fruit of Laurelin she bore. He looked over his shoulder to see a silver-haired maia standing behind him.

“I am glad you did not manage to kill yourself last night by falling out of the window,” said Olórin with a smile. “The ship awaits.”

And with a smile as dazzling as the sunrise, Glorfindel shrugged off the heartache and hopes of his dreams. Jumping down from the window ledge, he picked up his bags and followed the maia.

 

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Herunya (Q) – my lord

Heruvinya (Q) – my lords

Pitya (Q) – little one

Ammë (Q) – Mom/Mommy

Yonya (Q) – my son

Atto (Q) – Dad/Daddy

Amil (Q) – mother

Amya (Q) – my mother

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel's name in Quenya - when I first started writing this fic in late 2014, I had to decide whether to go with "Laurefindel" or "Laurefindil", and I decided on the former for the most frivolous of reasons, that I thought it looked nicer. I have long since come round to a conviction that the latter would be more accurate, but I've been strangely lazy in making the amendment in the new version. At first I decided that for consistency, it's just going to be "Laurefindel" in this fic. I've now changed the spelling in some places, but missed it in others, so it's a mess. I hope it won't bug you as much as it bugs me.


	3. Mending Souls

In the Halls of Mandos, a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years like a day. The Lord of the Dead moves unceasingly through his realm tending souls _._ To heal. Cleanse. Make whole. That is his end. And how intricate the innermost workings of these children of Eru Ilúvatar, how complex the workings of their hearts and wills. In each _fëa_ itself lies the key to its own healing, and no labour of Aulë, thought Námo, was ever fraught with more challenge than this mending of souls.

The dark _fëa_ of the traitor of Gondolin troubles Námo. Outside the halls, four millennia have flown by… yet still the traitor remains mired in much darkness. Unable, or unwilling, to relinquish it.

The souls of the dead do not consort with each other. But for this one, Námo brings in two other _fëar_ who still abide in his halls. He deposits them at their son’s side. Then the vala and Vairë his consort stand by to watch what unfolds.

The one whose brightness and a stain of scarlet dances over darker depths says softly in Quenya, “ _We are here, yonya. . . We love you_.”

“ _Speak for yourself_ ,” the other says gruffly in Sindarin, a soul dark as the traitor’s. In him, shadows swirl almost violently.

“ _I thought you understand no Quenya_ ,” says the first in Sindarin.

“ _There are many things you never knew, woman.”_

“ _Arrogant prick. You have not changed a whit.”_

_“Huil.”_

_“Shut up. Both of you,”_ mutters the traitor. _“Go away. Leave me alone.”_

Vairë forms scenes upon the wall. A tender glance between two figures, one dark and one white, in a dark wood. A passionate kiss. A smile exchanged over a newborn child. A father’s proud look as a boy forged his first knife.

Silence lies heavy in the chamber for a long while.

 _“Ill-mannered ruffian,”_ says one, tenderly.

“ _Snobby golodhrin wench_ ,” says the other softly, at last.

_“I love you too.”_

A sound of deep scorn comes from the dark one. _“You left.”_ The pain of the two words reverberates through the chamber.

 _“Get him out of here,”_ snarls the younger _fëa_ at the valar.

A boy appears on the chamber walls. The sullenness of the young face is lit with a fleeting moment of eager joy as the father turns a new-made knife in his large, strong hands and nods approval.

“ _Not till the two of you talk to each other,”_ says Námo.

“ _There is naught to say_.”

_“Naught to say to him, brute and murderer that he is… but to me, my little mole?”_

There is a small, choking sound. _“Ammë… do not call me that. Please.”_

In one image in the chamber is the great courtyard of a House in Gondolin where black banners are flown and “ _noldarë”_ is inscribed over a high and wide entrance. The mother observes it.

_“It cannot embarrass you so greatly, yonya. Why else did you name your House for the mole?”_

_“The colour.”_

_“I never knew you to like black.”_

A long silence ensues. Then the son says, “ _You should not have taken the javelin for me. You should not have died._ ”

He had mourned her for the rest of his life.

“ _My death is not on you, yonya. It was my choice. I would do it again a hundred times over.”_

_“Even knowing what was to come?”_

_“Hush,_ ” says Námo.

“ _Be free of my death, yonya. It was not your fault. It was his_.” She turns to the dark one by her. “ _And even so I forgive you. Crazy, stiff-necked, pig-headed Moriquendë.”_

“ _What have you to say to your son?_ ” Námo says to the dark one.

“ _You waste your time, Vala_.” The _fëa_ folds its arms and turns its back on all present, in as far as it is possible to turn one’s back on the Valar. “ _Send me back to my chamber.”_

 _“You shall stay here till you decide to speak_.” And Námo departs with the mother and with Vairë.

There is nothing in the Halls of Mandos if not time. Years roll past. Father and son staunchly maintain silence. The scenes of their lives play over and over, flitting across the walls. Travelling. Smithing. Quarrelling. Coming to blows. An evening of song around the fire with dwarves, the father’s eyes resting on his son with pride. A curse echoing off shining white stone as the father plummets to his death. The two _fëar_ move restlessly around the chamber, but there is no way to shut any of it out. There is naught they can do but face their lives. Moment by interminable moment.

Vairë freezes one of those moments. The time the dark one first learns he would be a father. On his face, as he takes his wife into his arms, a rare expression of wonder and joy and tenderness.

The discomfiture, the awkwardness and embarrassment of both _fëar_ trapped in that chamber is beyond description. “ _Damnation_!” mutters the father in frustration. If a _fëa_ could pound its fists on the walls, he would. “ _This is intolerable_.”

 _“They want us to talk. Fine. Let us talk,”_ the son mutters back.

_“Anything to end this.”_

_“Would that I had never been begotten.”_

Silence hangs over them again for a while.

 _“I never wished that_ ,” says the father, almost inaudibly.

_“Liar. You wanted me dead. You tried to slay me. You hated me.”_

_“I never hated you!! I knew I was a dead man the moment I spoke to that stinking golodh of a law-brother! Nay—”_ A muttered curse. _“I was a dead man from the time I lost you to their accursed golodhrin ways. When you turned against me. I would have taken you with me. He should not have you. He should not have what was mine. Mine.”_

Both of them are shaken, the silence reverberating with the intensity of his words.

_“You may look like her. But you are all me, within. Your mind—all me. Your heart—me. Your gifts—me. You would have become the best elven smith in Beleriand had you stayed—”_

_“Rot!! I was not good enough for you. You made that clear.”_

_“You were more than good enough. You were brilliant! But you—you were restless, like her. She stole you from me. Seduced you with their words, their ways.”_

And the son knows then. The son understands. Understands jealousy, fear of loss that propels a poisoned javelin across a throne room. Understands crazed despair and dark possessive love expressed in the curse of a condemned and damned murderer. _Your death shall be as mine. Then you shall be mine in death._

A twisted, tainted love. A megalomaniacal, homicidal love. But… love all the same. The only kind of love the dark ruler of Nan Elmoth had been capable of.

Námo returns.

“ _Ion-nín_ ,” mutters the dark _fëa_ as he is led out of the chamber. _“You are Maeglin. Not Lómion. Maeglin. My son.”_

Alone again at last, the son discovers emptiness where hatred for the father had once been. Discovers he can no longer hate him.

His father’s eyes stare down at him from the walls all around him, but in them he now sees fierce pride.

_“You were more than good enough. . .”_

_“Ada,”_ murmurs the son to the empty chamber.

And the son weeps. Plumes of darkness float forth from him and vanish into the depths of the abyss below. Námo lays a hand over him, and sings healing as the hurt is released.

And for a while, the vala is hopeful for the traitor. But another two millennia pass. Other souls rise past the traitor, reach the white brilliance of restoration, and are released into the Blessed Realm. Light and shadow contending in him, the traitor remains far from the white dome above. Certainly much better than one black and fiery _fëa_ still mired in the depths of Mandos’ Halls, who after six and a half millennia remains fiercely unrepentant of an oath. But as the fiery one is slated for incarceration till the Second Music, Námo has not been too perturbed by his recalcitrance. The vala would channel his care to the six sons. And this traitor.

And today, a visitor.

“ _But my Lord, he is not ready_ ,” pleads Námo.

Before them, the chamber of the treacherous _fëa_.

“ _We have never before released one who has not completed the cycles of healing and restoration_ ,” Námo says to his Lord. “ _Give us more time.”_

A wind stirs the robes of Námo, and a great, deep voice rumbles like thunder and the roar of ocean depths.

And Námo sighs and bows before the will of Eru Ilúvatar, which sometimes makes no sense, none, even to a vala.

He takes the troubled half-dark soul from the chamber and lays it upon his palm.

He looks upon it thoughtfully, and, with a hint of a smile, breathes on it once again.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Yonya (Q) – my son

Huil (S) – bitch

Golodhrin (S) – Noldorin (derogatory)

Moriquendë (Q) – Dark elf (singular)

Golodh (S) – Noldo (derogatory)

Noldarë (Q) - mole

Ion-nín (S) – my son


	4. Rebodied

Lightning crackles through the air and illuminates the darkness.

I am suddenly shocked into consciousness. Lightning blinds my eyes, and a deafening roll of thunder reverberates through my frame. It is freezing cold. Rain lashes at my bare skin.

Through a veil of mist I see the tall black shapes of trees looming around me.

I am gasping. I am gulping cold air into hurting lungs.

I am _breathing_. I _live_.

I was born into one forest. I am reborn in one again.

Hair blacker than the surrounding night falls across my face. I raise a hand to push it back. My elbows and knees scrape on wet gravel below. 

Then another sound, surreal, as though heard through water. The familiar howl of something wild and dark, bringing a chill of fear.

I scramble up and plunge forward, every move done with agonizing slowness… stumble through the rain and forest, brush against low branches that snag my dark hair, bare feet racing over grass, twigs, gravel.

I hear it. It is right behind me. I pick up a fallen branch as a weapon. It is so heavy.

I turn to see the black, bounding form with yellow eyes bounding closer. It leaps. A swing of the branch, and a cracking sound on impact. But I am weak. So weak. The beast should have been dead, or at least stunned; instead, it merely stumbles with a yelp. Then with a snarl and bared fangs, it leaps upon me. I jam the broken, jagged end of the branch into its jaws with all my strength as it knocks me upon the ground, and it shrieks. Its claws rake my arms. I clench my teeth at the pain and utter no cry.

The warg, wounded by the branch stabbed into its mouth, falls writhing to the ground.

The black bark of the nearest tree is rough against my bare palms and soles and scrapes my shins. As I pull myself up, I see below another set of yellow eyes and bounding black fur leaping at the trunk, fangs bared. Its jaws close on my ankle. I cry out at the pain, and am so startled at the sound of my own voice, I almost let go of the branch I am clinging to.

A whistling sound and a thud. The beast releases my foot, falls with a whine, a long shaft in its side.

The warg I had injured with the branch is whimpering and getting to its feet. Lithe figures edged with starlight drop from above or leaped in from the right. An elven blade flashes and plunges into the beast’s throat.

I am shivering as I cling to the branches of the tree with numbed, trembling hands, angry at my weakness. My vision swims.

Voices. Sindarin voices. The accent is strange, unfamiliar to me.

“An _elleth_ …”

“A _child_ …”

“Not quite a child…”

Who are they talking about? I feel so weary, so heavy. So weak.

“Are you hurt…?”

“I shall climb up and bring her down…”

“Varda, not a thread on her…”

In a moment, the face of a female elf in a green hood and cloak is near mine, grey eyes glittering. “ _Suilad_ , young one. Fear not. I shall help you down.” She smiles gentle reassurance at me as she reaches out a hand.

I glare at her in shock, any gratitude I might have had for my rescue eclipsed by the magnitude of this condescension.

“I have no need of help, woman,” I say through gritted teeth, and almost fall out of the tree at the sound of my voice.

Not my voice. No. That is not _my voice_.

With the wave of bewilderment and panic comes a surge of weakness. In the end, I am carried, half-fainting, down from the tree. By an _elleth_.

On solid ground, my vision is swimming. I feel hands wrap a cloak around me. The rain has settled to a light drizzle.

“Child, where are you from?” A male elf’s voice.

I push away the two _ellith_ holding me to stand alone, but sway and fall to my knees. Arms go around me to lift me.

“No, let her rest.”

I am leaned against a tree. My vision still swims, but I make out a fair face in a hood as it draws level with mine. Keen grey eyes the colour of slate scrutinize my face.

“What is your name, child?”

Child? My lips tighten with annoyance. _I am no child_ , I try to retort. But now no sound comes forth but a faint squeak which mortifies me. A flask is lifted to my lips, and a warm, smooth liquid courses down my throat and spreads its warmth from my belly right to my fingertips and toes.

I open my eyes and see a circle of five elven faces around me, all hooded in grey and green.

What is my name?

Suddenly, my mind is a blank. A wave of horror and panic sweeps over me.

“Where did you come from?”

I come from… from… I see in my mind a dark forest, and high mountains capped with snow. I can only gaze dumbly at my questioners.

“Are you badly hurt?”

“There are scratches on her arms and face, and the left ankle has suffered some mauling, but none of the wounds look deep.”

“Once the rest return, let’s get her back to the house.”

Almost as soon as he has spoken, four other elves run up swiftly.

“We killed six in the pack. The rest have escaped.”

“Where there are wargs, there may be _yrch_ nearby. Let us hurry home.”

Strong arms lift and carry me. I could not even protest if I wanted to. The sensation of helplessness infuriates me, but whatever drink they gave me takes effect. My eyes shut, and all goes dark.

 

Half-waking, I hear more Sindarin voices.

“Watch the ankle for infection. Aside from that, she should be fine. Call me if there is a fever.” A low voice, calm and authoritative.

“How old do you think she is, _hîr-nín?”_ A lighter, higher voice, lilting and sweet.

“Hmm… Forty perhaps. Hard to say. Still a child.”

The voices come from behind me. I am lying on a bed, half-facing the wall.

“Forty years… yet what soft hands and feet she has, soft as a newborn babe’s. As though she has never worked, never even walked much. Might she be high-born?”

“It is possible. Yet I would have thought I knew virtually all the noble families in the elven realms and settlements across Ennor. She might be from Mirkwood. Or a remote tribe of the Nandor or Avari. She spoke a strangely accented Sindarin, says the patrol, and seemed disoriented and a little hostile.”

“Well, the poor thing. Eru knows what she has been through. To be naked and alone.”

“I think our patient might be awake,” says the calm, measured voice. “Young maiden, can you hear me?”

My arms and my left foot are swathed in bandages. As I turn slowly in bed, an _elleth_ hastens to help me. I scowl in annoyance.

“Let her be, Thalanes. She can turn on her own.”

I look at my healer. He is tall, grave, dark-haired. His maroon robes are of a rich fabric, a simple silver circlet on his head. His face is calm and stern and he holds himself like a king. He reminds me of my king. I flinch from the memory. He smiles kindly at me.

I have questions aplenty. Where is this? _When_ is this? But I wait warily for him to speak first.

“ _Mae l’ovannen, gweneth._ Hail and well met, young maiden. How are you feeling?”

“Fine.” I try not to react at the sound of this new voice, so much lighter and higher than mine had been. I stare down at my fingers, peeping out from under the bandages on my arms. White, pale, slender fingers. Ridiculously delicate fingers, with shapely oval fingernails. I want to scream and weep and curse and bludgeon someone to death. Like a Vala named Námo.

The maroon-robed elflord is looking at me with disturbingly familiar piercing grey eyes. If he calls me “young maiden” once more, I am going to call violent curses down upon him and his family line.

“You are in Imladris. It is a place of safety, and a place of rest and healing,” he says, anticipating my question. “And I am Elrond, its lord. What is your name?”

I open, then close my mouth. I remember now. I had two names, in that first life. Neither will do now, nor does any feminine name come to mind. I give a small shrug. “I… know not,” I mumble in stilted Sindarin. I do not wish to speak this tongue. I have hated speaking it ever since my father’s death.

The grey eyes give me a penetrating look that makes me uneasy.  “Did you travel alone? Can you recall aught of what befell you?”

I jump a little. He is speaking to me in a form of Quenya.

I am silent for a while. His eyes hold mine.

“I recall naught,” I say calmly and fluently in Quenya. “Save that I awakened in the darkness and the rain. I heard the howl of the _ráca_ … and ran.”

He catches his breath and stares at me as I speak. I realize how unwise I might have been. Perhaps I should have pretended not to understand Quenya, but my pride in my mother’s blood had asserted itself.

A knock at the door. “Come in,” calls Elrond, and the head of a tall elf appears. His shining golden hair spills over his shoulder.

Oh. No. Not _him_. Not here.

I turn my face away to the wall.

“Lord Elrond, pardon the interruption. A word, please, once you are done?”

His voice has not changed. Confident, cheerful, courteous. Annoying.

“I… I am weary. I wish to rest,” I mumble. And it is true. I feel a wave of weakness overcome me.

Elrond reaches out a hand to touch my forehead and looks grave.

“Rest then. We shall speak later.”

There is an inaudible murmur of voices. The door shuts. I am alone.

I give vent to my anger and helplessness. I curse the Valar as they have cursed me. I clench my fists till the delicate nails draw blood from the soft white skin on my new palms. Hard, dry sobs of sheer rage wrack me as I lie on the bed. Weak. Feverish. And female.

Thalanes returns and slides her arm under my shoulders to lift me, puts a cup to my lips. I strike out at it and send it flying.

“ _Leave me be!!”_ I snarl.

The healer’s eyes, golden-green, are wide with shock. I watch weakly as, without a word, she cleans up the mess on the floor, goes out, and comes back with another cup. There is neither anger nor annoyance in her face, only kindness. “You have a fever. Please, drink this to get well.”

“Very well. Give it to me,” I growl. I hold out my hand for it, but my hand is shaking. She hesitates, then gives it to me. I manage to bring it to my lips and swallow it. The empty cup falls onto the sheets as I sink back onto the bed.

“ _Losto vae,”_ she says gently as she picks up the cup.

And I surprise myself by mumbling, as I drift into sleep, “ _Le athae.”_

 

* * *

_Glossary_

elleth / ellith (S) – elf woman, elf women

suilad (S) – hello

yrch (S) – orcs

hîr-nín (S) – my lord

mae l’ovannen (S) – you are well met (formal)

gweneth (S) – young maiden

ráca (Q) – wolf

losto vae (S) – sleep well

le athae (S) – thank you (chosen over the usual form for thank you, “le hannon”, because “le athae” has the additional meaning of “you are kind”)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. I initially thought that elves being re-embodied in adult form was fanon. In Morgoth’s Ring, it is pretty clear that Tolkien wanted elves to return to the womb and be reborn as babies who eventually recover their memories of their first life, and who “come to resemble their former self so closely that all who knew them before Death will recognize them”. I can think of all sorts of strangeness and awkwardness that could arise from that, not the least of which is having two sets of parents, and spouses/lovers/children from the first life having to deal with this. I was thus quite happy to discover that in Tolkien's last writings he abandoned the idea of rebirth. So yes, the Valar "reconstituting" the former bodies of elves is pretty much canon! Though I think exploring the "reborn as babies" scenario in a future fanfic would be interesting.  
> 2\. Elves being gender-switched when rebodied is, however, definitely against canon according to Morgoth's Ring, as each fëa has a gender identity that is fixed. I am enjoying Maeglin's gender-switch, but I have no intention of ever gender-switching any other character in Arda. I would never do it unless there was a logic and reason for it—and to me, there was a logic and reason for Maeglin’s becoming female.  
> 3\. Elves being rebodied against their will and consent is also non-canon.


	5. The Long Defeat

Elrond closed the door of the treatment room behind him. “Give her the draught for fever; athelas again for the foot tonight. And keep a watch on her,” he said to Thalanes.

As the healer hurried away to prepare the draught, Elrond walked with Glorfindel to the door of the hall of healing.

The Commander of the warriors of Imladris was dressed for battle, his sword hanging by his side, and his helmet under his arm. His armour gleamed less from the dim lamp light than from the radiance of his famed hair, which fell in golden waves down his back to his waist. Regardless of what had happened with the balrog in his last life, elven vanity ran deep and it would never have occurred to him to tie his tresses up. No self-respecting elf would.

As they strode down the lamp-lit corridor, before the warrior could speak, Elrond said to him, “Does that child look familiar to you? And tell me in Quenya.”

“What??”

“Humour me. In Quenya, please.”

Glorfindel looked quizzically at Elrond, but obediently replied in Quenya, “Perhaps. . . I cannot quite place her, though.”

“That’s the very accent!” said Elrond in Sindarin. “Now, how is it that a child of forty in our times should speak Quenya—and not any Quenya, but the elegant, quaint Quenya of my great-grandfather’s court?”

“There is nothing odd about my accent!”

“My foster fathers would have begged to differ,” said Elrond drily, emphasizing the lisp.

“Did you find out what in Eä she was doing, wandering naked in the southern woods of the Rhudaur?” said Glorfindel, reverting to Sindarin. Quenya was by this time a language of ritual and ceremonies and ancient song, and he had never before conversed in it with Elrond.

 “She cannot remember. Yet she looked at you rather strangely when you entered. You may have reminded her of someone.” Before she had quickly turned her face away to the wall, Elrond had caught the expression that had flashed across it. The disgusted look of an elf who had just seen a squat, warty toad or a troll. Not the usual reaction of most maidens to his gloriously beautiful, golden-haired friend.

Glorfindel gave a small shrug. “I did not get a good look at her, but I don’t believe she’s anyone I have met on my travels.” He looked away from Elrond. There was a haunted look in his eyes. “She seemed rather agitated. I shall speak to her when she is well again.”

“She is a strange child. Very strange,” said Elrond. “She certainly does not behave like a youngling.”

Glorfindel shook off the shadow that had touched him and briskly changed the subject. “The patrol that just returned saw the wargs that Gildor and his company encountered, and a band of orcs. About twenty. I am heading out with a party to hunt them down. . .”

 

The sky was grey and overcast. Riding out in the dim light of early morning with his company of eight, the golden-haired elflord was more silent than he was wont to be, and his warriors left him to his thoughts

The girl in the healing halls. Black hair, white skin. And suddenly he was transported back to a beloved city with tall white towers surrounded by seven gates, protected by the sheer cliffs of the Echoriad, the Encircling Mountains: Gondolin the fair, last secret stronghold of the Noldorin exiles in Beleriand. For that one fleeting glimpse of a young, fair face had reminded him of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel, sister to King Turgon the white lady of the Noldor. It had been a dark day when Glorfindel had lost the king’s sister in Nan Dungortheb, and a darker day still, a day of doom, when she had at last returned to Gondolin.

Glorfindel remembered her pale, stricken face as she had sunk to the cold flagstones with her husband’s poisoned javelin in her shoulder. He had been standing just a little too far to save her. Had a second time in her life failed her, and that second time had been fatal.

The failures of his life. . .

The highs and lows of service in the mortal lands over two ages. The bitter victory of the Last Alliance. Facing down and defeating the Witch King of Angmar. Establishing a safe haven for the Eldar and for the Dúnedain in Imladris. As commander of the valley’s armed forces, his duty was to keep it and its surrounding region safe. Few orcs or wargs or trolls that wandered west across the Misty Mountains survived to tell the tale. The men and hobbits of Eriador never realized how much of their peace and security they owed to the vigilance of the elves of Imladris and the Men of the West.

But the darkness was growing. Both orcs and wargs were becoming larger and bolder and their incursions more frequent. The Lady of Imladris, Celebrían, had been captured by Orcs a number of years back while travelling home from a visit to her parents.

And where had Glorfindel been, when Elrond had staggered and fallen to his knees one twilight in Imladris, as his lady's pain and terror smote him across a hundred leagues?

The balrog slayer had been several hundred miles away at Mithlond, seeing off some friends as they took ship west. By the time he had returned to Imladris, Celebrían had been brought home, a shadow of her former self. She had taken a morgûl wound, and never recovered, despite all Elrond’s efforts to heal her. She had begun to fade, and had sailed for Aman leaving her grieving husband and her three children.

Glorfindel had been sent to help and serve the descendants of Turgon, and in the moment the family had needed him most deeply. . .

But now, with a flash of his eyes and a leap of his heart, he saw the orcs in the distance.

He and his company of elven warriors and Rangers of the North descended swiftly upon the orcs and wargs. The skirmish was brief but brutal. Some of the foul creatures fled in fear before the white light shining from the golden-haired warrior, which seared their eyes with the purity of its radiance. His sword cleaved through the orc ranks as the white horse Asfaloth ran through them. The cowardly orc commander and some of its creatures fled into the dense woods where Asfaloth could not follow. Leaping from Asfaloth’s back Glorfindel gave chase, decapitated one warg, thrust through an orc, came face to face with the commander and slashed through its armour and its torso as through butter. Thought and act and instinct were one as his sword sang, and Glorfindel, for those moments, felt fully alive.

This had been one of the easier ones. With their leader gone the enemy had all tried to flee and were picked off relatively easily.

The Commander returned to his men and whistled for Asfaloth, the white battle-light still flickering in his blue eyes and shining in his face. He sang healing softly to his trusty steed as he bandaged a flesh wound on Asfaloth’s right foreleg—might need a couple of stitches, nothing serious—and checked on his company: three _ellyn_ , two _ellith_ , and three young Dunedain aged sixteen, nineteen, and twenty. No casualties, minor wounds. Between the nine of them, they did the tally. All twenty-three orcs and nine wargs had been killed, almost half by Glorfindel alone. The golden-haired lord’s armour was spattered with orc blood, but he himself looked as fresh as the morning.

The three Rangers looked warily at the elven warrior, in awe of the fluid grace that had carved a path of destruction with such swiftness and ease through the orcish company. Shining like a star, his beautiful face stern and terrible, he had looked to them like one of the Valar. They could feel power still emanating from the bright-haired elflord as he approached them, prickling their skin like lightning in the air.

The Rangers were young ones, new to Imladris and had been training with Glorfindel’s captains. He, just returned from Lothlórien, had not had time to break the ice with them. Yet. He patted Asfaloth’s flank and smiled at the _edain_ , and his expression transformed into boyish friendliness. It was as though the sun had come out. They smiled back.

“Well done, lads,” he said with a grin. He glanced up at the skies. They had cleared. “It’s going to be a beautiful May morning! Let’s go home for breakfast.”

 

After breakfast with his men and a good bath, Glorfindel went out onto the terrace with his bright hair still damp, whistling cheerfully, a large tray balanced on one hand. He slid down the balustrade of the steps leading to the gardens, the tray still perfectly balanced, and set it down with a flourish on a small table next to a chair where a grey-robed wizard was sitting, enjoying the morning sun.

“Breakfast is served, _mellon-nin!_ ” Glorfindel poured out some tea for the wizard. “I met the maid as I passed by the kitchen,” he added by way of explanation, before throwing himself gracefully into a chair. “From the distant snores my elven ears discern from the guest wing, our good hobbit is still asleep.”

“All tuckered out by his adventures,” said the wizard with a chuckle. “And he’s had aplenty for a little fellow.”

“Yes, adventures.” Glorfindel sighed and looked balefully at the wizard. “It will be a long while before I forgive you for packing me off to Lothlórien after Dol Guldur. And causing me to miss the biggest battle since the Last Alliance.”

“You were too injured to take part in another battle. You have only yourself to blame for taking such wild risks with your life in the assault on the Necromancer.”

“There’s gratitude. I saved your lives.”

“I am not ungrateful. But you were careless.” The wizard raised an eyebrow at the elf as he ate. “I should like to know why you appear so bent on sending yourself back to the Halls of Mandos.”

Glorfindel reached for a piece of bread and laughed musically, but for once it did not sound particularly merry. “Would that be a loss? I’ve fought the good fight for five thousand years. I’m ready for retirement.”

“Glorfindel, you were sent here. No one has given you leave to return yet.”

“What real purpose do I serve now? I keep myself busy, but the truth is the guard of Imladris is so well-trained it can run without me. The captains can train the Dúnedain without me. My warriors could have handled that orc company we slew this morning—without me there—and not even broken a sweat. The population of the valley is down to below eight hundred, and I’m not involved at all in administration. Erestor and I keep getting on each other’s nerves, and Elrond keeps fabricating excuses to send me to Lothlórien and Mirkwood. But all I really do in the Golden Woods is have an extended holiday.”

“Galadriel, Celeborn and Arwen are very fond of you.”

“So is half the single female population. It gets tiresome, you know, politely telling _ellith_ to get out of my bed and off my _talan_. And in the Woodland Realm, all Thranduil and I do is annoy each other. I’m not a diplomat, I’m a warrior. Erestor should be the one to go on these diplomatic trips, but all he wants to do is bury himself in the library. There’s next to no work for him to do here. In fact, since the house steward sailed west, Erestor has not even looked for a replacement. He’s simply assumed the duties to stave off boredom.”

“Maybe one of your purposes here has been to keep Erestor amused.” The wizard chuckled.

“Maybe if I annoy him enough he’ll kill me.” The elf poured a fresh cup of tea for the wizard.

The wizard had finished his breakfast and now lit his pipe. Glorfindel wrinkled his nose and quickly swung himself away from the smoke into the nearest tree upwind.

“It is a lovely blend, this particular mix of weed. You should try it one day.”

“The beard and the old man incarnation, I could get used to. This stinking dwarven habit, never. Manwë would disapprove.”

“I shall plant pipeweed in Yavanna’s fields one day. It shall be a new fad in Aman.”

Halfway up the tree, the elf looked out over the valley a little dreamily. “There was a time this valley housed twenty-thousand elves. And in the days of the gathering of the Last Alliance, there must have been a hundred thousand at least camped here, and a hundred thousand more in the surrounding lands. A sea of tents and temporary dwellings. But almost all have passed west. Taken ship, or been taken to Mandos. For the tale of the Firstborn in the mortal lands, is the tale of our woe and our long defeat. These are the days of our fading. To diminish in numbers, to dwindle in power, and at long last to depart.”

He settled himself on a bough. The wizard smoked his pipe, and waited.

“After five millennia here, what have I really achieved?” said the musical voice from the branches above. “Think about it. I did not succeed in stopping Annatar. I protected Lindon, but I could not protect Eregion.”

“Eregion refused your intervention.”

“Yet that was where it was most needed. And so, the rings were made. Celebrimbor got slaughtered.”

“He made his choices. He would not listen to you, or Elrond, or Gil-galad.”

“Gil-Galad.” A sigh from the tree. “I could not save my king. Or Elendil. I was not even there for the end of the siege of Barad-dûr. The most important battle in the Second Age, and I missed it.”

“Because you were fighting for your life in the infirmary. I heard the tale from Elrond. And you omit to mention that you saved Thranduil’s life.”

“For which he has never been grateful. I failed to save his father.”

“And if you had not been in the skirmish that almost killed you, neither Gil-Galad nor Elendil might have lived to see that final battle with Sauron. The darkness rises again. We saw it, at Dol Guldur. We have vanquished it but for a while. There may be other battles for you still to fight.”

“The Istari are here to fight them, Olórin. I wonder if you truly needed me at Dol Guldur. Perhaps you summoned me there because you felt sorry for me twiddling my thumbs here.”

“If you really need to hear me say it, of course you were needed.”

Glorfindel was restlessly climbing higher and higher in the tree. Lying back and gazing at the sky, he let the tree cradle him in its branches. “I see no great battles in my future.” Prophecy was a gift he sometimes had, but for others, never himself. “I see. . .nothing.”

The wizard’s face grew stern. “Bitterness does not become you, Glorfindel,” he said in reprimand. “Since when have you been so cynical? This is not like you at all. You forget that your mission was specific. You were sent here to serve Elrond.”

“Apart from playing chess with him and letting him beat me, I cannot see how I am serving.”

“He is your friend as well as your assignment. And for as long as he and his family are here, the greatest warrior in Middle Earth should be at his side.”

“ _Do not call me that!_ ” Glorfindel sat up straight and looked down at the wizard with flashing eyes. “I _hate_ being called that. And the so-called ‘greatest warrior in Middle Earth’ was not even there when Elrond needed him most.” Standing up, he balanced impossibly on the slenderest, swaying branches at the top of the tree without using his hands.

The wizard pulled on his pipe and blew a few beautiful smoke rings. “So that is what this is all about.”

The tree was silent except for leaves rustling in the wind.

“Come, come. Come on down here before you fall and hurt yourself. Whatever you do, Námo will not let you back into his halls. You’ll merely be miserable and suffer horribly for nothing.”

“Námo told you that?”

“I know for a fact that all of us are wherever we are for a reason, and until the appointed time. And your appointed time to go home has not come yet. The truth is, I have no idea how you may yet serve Elrond and his family. But you have done so, faithfully and well, and this self-flagellation over Celebrían is needless. It was Elrond himself who suggested you accompany Gwestor and his family to the Havens. And even had you been here, you could not have prevented the tragedy, or reached Celebrían much faster than her sons did. So, stop being silly and come down. I want to say something.”

Glorfindel lightly descended to a lower bough and sat on it. “Speak. I’ll stay here till you finish that pipe.”

The wizard puffed on his pipe and looked at him with deep eyes. _“An answer to your deepest question. . . the missing piece of your soul_. Surely you are not done yet in Ennor until you have found what was promised you.”

Glorfindel gave a light laugh. “I never understood what Manwë meant by that, and still do not. I cannot seek when I know not what to seek.”

Gandalf smiled. “Or in other words, there is no disappointment for one who does not hope.”

Glorfindel glared at the wizard. “I had no need to hope for anything. I had no questions and no missing pieces before the Lord of the Winds proposed to me that I did. I was perfectly happy.”

“And restless.”

Glorfindel shifted on his bough. “To seek for myself is. . . selfish.”

“And trying to get yourself killed and leave your friends bereft is not?”

Glorfindel said nothing for a while.

“My deepest question right now is. . . _have I been enough? Have I done enough?_ ” He looked away towards the west. “And, Olórin, old friend. . .” Just then, a small figure with curly hair and furry feet emerged onto the terrace. The elf broke off whatever he had been about to say, waved at the hobbit with a cheerful smile that he did not feel, and leapt lightly down from the tree. “I’ll ask the kitchen to prepare a hobbit-sized tray of breakfast.”

“They may be small, but they have impressive appetites.”

“That was what I meant!”

And with his golden hair shining in the late morning sun, he ran up the steps, and exchanged a few words with Bilbo before disappearing into the house.

“Good morning, Baggins.”

“And a good morning to you, Gandalf!”

Bilbo lit his pipe as he settled into the chair next to the wizard’s. “Such a charming fellow, that Glorfindel! Do you know what he said he’d get me for my breakfast? Mushrooms! And an omelette. And a bit of a steak and kidney pie.” He sighed blissfully as he leaned back in his chair, pulled on his pipe, and blew out a few smoke rings. “Ah, elves! Always so merry, and fair, and full of song! One cannot be weary in a place like this. I feel like a new hobbit already.”


	6. Beginning Again

In that first moment between sleep and dreaming, after a calamity has struck, you wish, you hope, you pray, that you will awaken to find that it was, after all, only a nightmare. That it is not real.

I no longer pray. Not since my petitions were futile and my mother died; not since I begged all the powers that be for mercy, for an end to my torment, and remained condemned to a love that destroyed me.

But I do cling to hope, as I stir to consciousness. Hope that it was a cruel joke of the Vala, and that I am myself again.

I have a body. I am truly no longer in the Halls of the Dead. I feel myself tentatively through the shapeless sleeping gown I am clothed in, and with a curse and a groan I bury my face miserably in the pillow. I continue to mutter heartfelt curses into it until I hear a familiar feminine voice.

“I rejoice to see you awake, _mellon._ How do you feel now?”

 _Go away. Leave me alone. Let me die_ —but that last thought shrivels at the realization that death would mean nothing but another few cosy millennia in Mandos. And probably some new, tasteless Valian joke at the end of it.

I keep silence, but turn my face to glower at the kindly healer standing by my bed.

I think back on the royal healer at Gondolin who, regardless of my status, would have drawled, “My, my, aren’t we chipper this morning, my lord prince?” as he checked on my battle injuries. I had rather liked him for it. This _elleth_ has neither the wit nor the nature for such sarcasm. She continues to smile sweetly, and with a light touch to my brow and my pulse finds out what she seeks to know. She looks pleased.

“Splendid!” And before I can even protest, she has deftly sat me up in bed and fluffed my pillows.

How does she _do_ that?

“I am Thalanes. I have been taking care of you since you arrived. Are you hungry? I shall get you something to eat.”

And ignoring my angry scowl, she flits away blithely, and returns shortly with a small plate of food and a cup of drink on a tray. “Just a little morsel to tide you over till dinner. I shall send word to Lord Elrond that you are much better.”

And she flits away again.

I eye the plate, and I realize that I am hungry. I try not to look at my slender hands as I butter bread and peel off the orange skin of an unknown fruit. I focus on taste, texture, sensations. The crispness of a salad leaf. The chewiness of warm, soft, bread with a hint of salt. The sweet, warming trickle of wine down my throat. I find myself savouring the food with gratitude, as I never had in another life when eating had been more of an obligation than a pleasure. After several moments, as I stare at the empty plate of what had been very simple fare, I am conscious of having enjoyed it.

I am astonished by this. I feel different. Perhaps I _am_ different.

Feeling refreshed and strengthened, I am curious about everything. I have so many questions. Where? When? What? The name _Imladris_ that I heard the other night means nothing to me.

I look around at the small chamber. I take in the stonework of the walls, the graceful curves and flourishes of the carvings and designs on the cornices, echoed in the carvings on the wood of my bed. There is beauty and elegance, and a certain simplicity. It pleases me. It is nothing like the magnificence of Gondolin’s architecture, but then I had always thought that excessive.

On the wall opposite my bed, two tall windows. Their arches are decorated with similar carvings of flowers and trees. Their stained-glass casements are opened to let in the fresh air of what looks like a warm day in late spring. The soft breeze blowing in brings the fragrance of flowers and beckons to me.

I set my bandaged foot down on the cool stone floor. There is no more pain. I wonder how long I have slept; how long it took for my foot to heal. I walk slowly to the window, feeling a little giddy and unsteady on my feet. I clutch the window sill and look out.

It is late in the afternoon, and the sun is low in the sky. Mountains encircle a green valley—a valley much smaller than the other. Neither are the mountains as high as the Echoriad, where the majestic high peaks had been white with snow all year round. And here, too, are waterfalls; the distant sound of cascading water carries to me on the breeze. At the foot of the mountains are gently rolling hills, and before them orchards and fields through which a river runs, and lush meadows starred with flowers. And I see habitations, and something that looks like a village next to a curve in the river. From here, I can see that the building I am in appears to be part of a grand, sprawling house several floors high, and the healing halls seem to be on the ground floor. I see a couple of towers, and a dome. Below me is a fountain, and beyond it stretch terraces and gardens verdant with trees, flowers and running streams.

There are not many people in sight. In the gardens are two dark-haired elflords who are mirrors of each other, and sitting studiously between them is a young mortal boy poring over a large book. Far in the distance, on a green lawn, archery targets are set up, and warriors are riding and shooting at them. There are farmers in the fruit orchards and fields of grain beyond.

On a white horse far away is a rider with a head of bright flowing golden hair. Something in my stomach tightens, irked just at the sight of him. Some things have not changed. I must find out what this place is, and if there are others from Gondolin here.

But overall, it seems a pleasant enough place to start over again with a new identity and a new form. For no one knows who I am, no one could conceivably guess who I am, and I shall be sure to keep it thus. Surely no one could guess, and I concede some wisdom in the Valar’s plan. I am not grateful. But I am beginning to feel some… appreciation of what has been given to me. A new beginning. A second chance. Very well then; I shall make the best of it. And live free of a curse that, already fulfilled, surely has no more power to touch me.

A friend will be useful. This healer, Thalanes, seems to be the kind and guileless sort. She will do well for my purposes.

I am feeling weak, and turn to make my way back to the bed when the healer opens the door, holding a dress and a pair of shoes in her hands.

“Ooh,” Thalanes coos delightedly. “You are strong enough to walk! Wonderful! But I wish you had waited for me. You could have fallen.” And setting dress and shoes down on a chair by the door, she quickly comes to aid me back to the bed. I allow her to without protest, even lean on her a little. I am an elfmaid. I shall learn to act the part. Self-conscious about my accent, I am reluctant to speak Sindarin. I hear echoes of my father’s voice each time I do. But I need information.

“How long was I asleep?” I try my best to imitate her inflections. The vowels are shorter. Some consonants are articulated differently.

“Two days. It is normal. The draught is strong.”

More fluffing of pillows as I sit up in bed. She begins to unwrap the bandages on my arms.

“I have changed the bandages once since the night you arrived here. It was healing very well. Normal, for young ones like you—” I try not to wince at that. I tell myself that youth is an advantage for me. They say I look forty. I have about ten years to my majority. Ten years to learn and to think; to plan what to do and where to go.

“I hope you do not mind, but we gave you a name, since you could not recall yours. We did not wish to refer to you as ‘the patient’.”

A name. Of course, I need a name. “Who is _we?”_

“Me and the other healers.”

“And what name might that be?”

“Bainwen.”

“What?” I sputter. “Absolutely not! I am NOT going to answer to Bainwen!”

“Why, what then?” says Thalanes, not put out by the rejection of the name. “Hmmm. How about ‘Lothel’? That’s a pretty one.”

“No!!”

“Dúlinneth? You have a sweet voice.”

Oh, hammer of Aulë. “No! Nothing sweet, nothing pretty. Please.”

Thalanes looks at me helplessly. “What then? Hmmm. . . let me think. What flowers do you like? Stars? A graceful deer? Arasneth?”

“No, no, no!” Damnation!! I had only ever named horses and weapons and crafted objects in my life. Never had I ever needed to think of names for a maiden. Suddenly, I understand why my father took twelve years to think of a name for me. For those first twelve years I was just “the boy” or “son”. Finding a female name I could answer to is causing me to break out in a cold sweat.

“Lómiel,” I say hurriedly, before Thalanes makes me cringe with any further suggestions. “Call me Lómiel.”

The moment I utter it, misgiving twists deep in my belly. _Lómion, son of twilight._ The Quenya name my mother gave me. The name of a traitor.

But the healer’s face is unclouded. In fact, it brightens. “Lómiel! It is pretty enough. Lómiel!”

And as she pronounces it in Sindarin, I quietly exhale in relief. _Daughter of echoes._ There have been names far stranger than that. It will serve.

All the bandages have been removed. She applies ointment to the scratches on my arms, which have healed well. I am startled to behold the ugly ankle wounds, a pattern of fine stitches. The numbing sensation from the ointment she spreads upon it explains my lack of pain.

“We can remove the stitches in two days, I think, Lómiel,” says the healer as she gently winds a fresh bandage around the ankle. “But you need not stay here. I have asked Lord Erestor to let you have a room. And Lord Elrond says that if you feel well enough, you may join us for dinner. Would you like to?”

A chance to explore the surroundings, find out more about this place.

“Will there be a lot of people at dinner?”

“Oh, the whole household.” She thinks for a moment. “About a hundred of us. It gets smaller each year.”

“Why?”

“Because of those who sail west.”

“West?” I venture.

“To Aman, the Blessed Realm.”

As I slowly digest that, I say, and it is easy for me to be mournful as I say it, “I wish I could remember something. Anything. I do not even know where this is.”

“Imladris?”

“I remember nothing of Imladris.”

“It is west of the Hithaeglir—the Misty Mountains. East of Eriador.”

“Is there a book or a map I could look at? Mayhap it will jolt my memory.”

“Oh, I will get one for you!” It is hard not to like her. She is so eager to help and show kindness. “But first, would you wish to join us for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“Lovely! I brought this dress for you.” She holds up a dark forest-green dress, trimmed with just a touch of gold embroidery at the hem and at the fitted bodice. “It is simple, but I hope it will do.”

Simple? I frown at the gold embroidery. Still, it is far better than the ostentatious, jewel-encrusted gowns of some of the courtiers at Gondolin. I will endeavour to be grateful. And not make a demand for black, which would unnecessarily cause suspicion.

“You dislike it?” She looks crestfallen. “There is a store room in the basement full of clothes and other belongings left by those who have departed west. If you wish, you may come with me one day to choose a few. The prettiest ones have been taken. It is mostly plain dresses like these left.”

“I like plain.”

She holds up a dainty pair of green silk slippers. “It matches! And you may wear them even with the bandage on your foot.”

“It will do fine,” I say. After a pause, I add as an afterthought, “ _Le hannon_.”

“ _Glassen_ ,” she replies, beaming brightly.  “We have no other patients at present, so I am available to help you any way I may.” She flits out of the room, and returns in a while pushing in a mirror on wheels and balancing a basin and a washcloth in her other hand. “Take your time to freshen yourself and get dressed. In the meantime, I will find a book in the library for you.”

I make an effort to smile in return at her. I hope it looks civil and pleasant, and not like a grimace or a smirk.

On my own again, I cross over warily to the mirror, bracing myself for what I will see in it. Even as a man, I had hardly ever liked to look into a mirror. But I must see what I am now, what the Valar have done to me. What I have to live with.

The girl in the mirror stares back at me with piercing black eyes. Her long, black hair falls in a mass to her thighs. Her body is swathed still in the long white sleeping gown. Delicate hands and one bare, delicate foot peep out from under it. Her hair half-veils her face. A hand lifts to sweep it out of the way.

I scrutinise the face with as much critical detachment as I can. It is aesthetically pleasing in its symmetry. The face shape is oval, and the features are fine enough. The skin is pale and flawless. The long black eyes with the sharp glance are familiar. _Like your father’s eyes_ , says a voice within. But I brush it away. Only the colour of the eyes, obsidian and opaque, is like my father’s. Their shape, their expression, are all my own. Maeglin Lómion’s.

With a deep breath, I pull the sleeping gown over my head, toss it aside, and look at the girl in the mirror as coolly as if she were one of the stone sculptures lining the Hall of Council at Gondolin. Breasts. Slender waist. Gently rounded hips. Slender long legs. Not bad at all.

For the first time since my awakening, I remember another face and body, one which I never saw unclothed except in my imagination. My memories paint, in every vivid detail, a vision of beauty with luminescent golden hair and brilliant grey sea eyes, the curve of a long throat, the womanly fullness of a soft white bosom, a tiny waist spreading to full hips.

How excruciatingly this beauty had filled my days and nights with longing, tormented me endlessly with burning lust. How despairingly I had loved, knowing with a rage that bordered on madness, that I could never, would never, be loved in return.

Then, it hits me.

I have not thought of Itarillë at all till this moment. She who had haunted my waking hours almost ceaselessly in another life.

And now, now that I am thinking of her, I feel. . .I feel. . .

Nothing.

My entire world shifts and tilts.

I replay my memories deliberately, moment by moment. Itarillë. Dancing in the white-silver dress I loved the most. Leaning close to me to whisper a joke, her breath against my ear, back in the early days when she did not yet fear me. The scent of her perfume. This takes a while. There are over a century of memories and moments, each of which had always driven me to intense despair with aching need and desire.

Still. . . nothing.

A strange emptiness fills me for a moment.

And out of that emptiness, another alien sensation awakens in my heart and begins to wash over me until, at last, it breaks over me like a tidal wave. I gasp with sudden amazement and elation. Lighthearted, lightheaded, relieved. . . there are not words enough to express it. . .

I am _free_. Free at last. Free of the madness of almost two centuries.

 _Free_.

I feel light, so light that I might float away like a bubble.

It is so overwhelming that as I stand rooted before the mirror I barely see myself anymore, revelling, exulting, in this new lightness of being.

So overwhelming that when the knock comes at the door, I forget that I am standing there without a thread upon me and say absently: “Yes?”

The door opens, and an elflord stands there dressed for dinner in a dark blue robe bordered with golden embroidery, his golden hair flowing over one shoulder down to his waist.

I turn towards my visitor.

He freezes and stares, and his mouth falls slightly open.

In the same moment I realize that one, I am smiling, and two, who my visitor is. My smile vanishes at once. I glare at him, place my hands on my hips, and my lips part to speak. But before I can say, in Quenya, “Yes, Laurefindil. What do you want?” the realization hits me.

Where I am. What I am now. And what I am not wearing.

“ _Ai,_ _muk_ ,” I mumble in confusion. I am astonished by a hitherto unknown instinct of maidenly modesty which causes me to lift an arm to shield my chest, and place the other hand over the triangle between my thighs.

“My apologies,” the Lord of the Golden Flower says in a barely audible voice. And quickly and quietly closes the door behind him.

I stare at the closed door. The image of the elflord’s shocked face and how the tips of his pointed ears had begun to turn red is branded in my mind.

Something warm gathers in the pit of my belly. Something that tickles.

Perhaps I should be embarrassed. But it is hard to be after years of common baths with fellow warriors at Gondolin, and answering the call of nature in the open air while on the march to and from battle with twelve thousand warriors.  

When it comes to that, I can remember quite clearly what _his_ looks like. An impressive enough package. But honestly, I think mine was bigger.

I turn my head to look back at the girl in the mirror. She is smiling broadly.

When was the last time I smiled?

Had I ever smiled that widely before, even as an elfling in the cool shadows of Nan Elmoth?

The girl in the mirror continues to smile. A comely wench. She has excellent teeth.

I am still thinking of the Golden Flower’s blushing face. I have reduced a mighty elven warrior of great renown to blushes and helplessness. This is power of a kind. One I am wholly unfamiliar with.

And it feels good.

The sensation in my belly has been building. The shoulders of the smiling girl in the mirror begin to shake. I feel unfamiliar muscles in my cheeks work, and hear a musical sound in my ears as the girl tosses her head back and gives way to laughter.

And ah, yes indeed, it feels. . . very good.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

_Bainwen (S) – fair maiden_

_Lothel (S) – flower maiden_

_Dúlinneth (S) – nightingale maiden/girl_

_Arasneth (S) – deer maiden/girl_

_Lómiel (Q) – daughter of twilight (the feminine version of Lómion). I adopted this from EbonyKitty552's Silmarillion Prompts (which inspired this story), but gave a reason why Maeglin couldn't come up with a cleverer and less obvious name._

_Lómiel (S) – daughter of echoes (which is how all the Imladrim will interpret it)_

_Le hannon (S) – thank you_

_Glassen (S) – my joy (you are welcome)_

_Muk (Q) – crap/shit_


	7. A Little Night Music

_Stupid, stupid,_ _stupid_. . .

His face still burning, Glorfindel marched down the hallway and out onto a terrace facing the garden. He leaned against a pillar, pulling fresh, cool air into his lungs.

She had not been trying to seduce him. Her direct, man-like gaze as she looked at him in the doorway and her genuine confusion when she realized her nakedness assured him of that.

What upset the warrior was his response. The heat that had flowed through him as he gazed on her white, bare flesh and into her obsidian eyes. The way he had gawked at her like a green youngling. The shock of sudden need and longing that had violently wrenched through him at her smile—an incandescent, secret smile, as though she had just received tidings of great joy. How strangely his longing for her had not waned even as her smile had abruptly faded, and as the mouth had curled in a scowl that was oddly familiar.

It was not as though he had not had plenty of experience with women over the ages, one-sided though it had always been. Even before he reached his majority, they had flocked after him, and almost not a week had gone by without at least one besotted female throwing herself at him. He had quickly learned to deal with it. It had not been too hard; his main concern was to ensure no one got hurt. Keep it friendly and light, and get out of every tricky situation with a mix of playful banter and knightly gallantry. There were occasions when some _ellith_ made their way into his private chamber and presented themselves to him in various stages of undress, beseeching him to marry them. Somehow, he always managed to talk to each of them gently and reasonably, and eventually manoeuvre each of them out of his bed and chamber without hurting her ego or vanity.

That amounted over his two lifetimes to quite a number of encounters with very fair, unclothed _ellith_ , and not one had awakened his heart or his body. As the skies darkened and lanterns began to glow in the trees, he prowled the gardens below the terrace like a restless lion, wracked with confusion and shame at the heat and unfamiliar emotions that were surging through him for the first time in his long life. How could this be happening to him? Why after seven thousand years? And why _this one?_

And he could not say what upset him more.

That he had felt heat flood him even as he had looked at a body that he knew was clearly under-aged. Breasts still ripening. Hips slightly curved. A _baby_ in comparison to himself, for Eru’s sake! He was so appalled and aghast that he barely knew himself.

Or that he had felt himself go weak with utter longing and abject adoration even as he looked into familiar obsidian eyes and at an arched, haughty eyebrow and scowl he had seen a hundred times before. She had stood there with her hands on her hips, for all the world as though the annoying Lord of the House of the Golden Flower had just interrupted her in her study or forge at Gondolin to bother her with some tiresome business. He had almost expected to hear a familiar, gruff voice snap out, “Yes, Lord Laurefindil. What may I do for you?”

He had looked into the face of the traitor of Gondolin, and desired it.

He was so upset that later at the dining table, he needed to have five cups of strong wine before dinner was even served. Trying not to think of familiar black eyes and young, white flesh. Trying not to think about the mystery of how the eyes of a traitor from six millennia past could look back at him from the face of this young maiden.

And he had not even got down to the business that had taken him to the healing halls. Erestor had asked him to inform the newcomer of arrangements for her to move out of the healing halls and to another room. And he, thinking of how he had wanted to investigate her resemblance to Aredhel, had accepted.

At the dining table, as Erestor chided him testily for his failure in carrying out such a simple task, Glorfindel remained uncharacteristically silent and poured another goblet of wine.

 

It took her longer to put on the unfamiliar garments than she might have thought. Any moron could figure out the logic of the design, but actually donning it had been something else. A lot of hooks and eyes, and adjustments and fidgeting and re-adjusting. Then a layer of clothing over, and a lot of lacing and more re-adjustments.

Why must lacing be at the _back_ of the dress? Were all _ellith_ required to be contortionists? She made a mental note to head down to the basement store room as soon as she could to search for clothes of more sensible design.

She tugged and tied bows and cursed and fussed until the figure in the mirror looked presentably neat and tidy. By then the face that looked back at her was scowling darkly. She attempted a smile, and the face in the mirror at once became winsome.

The healer entered the room with half a dozen large books piled in her arms. “I had such trouble deciding, that in the end Idhren the librarian gave me leave to take all of these.”

Maeglin’s black eyes glinted eagerly as she looked through the books that Thalanes spilled onto her bed. Geography and history books. Two atlases.

“You look very pretty,” said Thalanes approvingly. “Let me braid your hair—”

“Oh no,” said Maeglin hurriedly, stepping away. “No time for that.” She took one of the hair clips Thalanes had provided for her, pulled back some hair and clipped it at the back of her head. Her glossy hair, well-brushed, fell in a silken black mantle down her back. “Let us go.”

 

Glorfindel turned pale in the lamplight as Maeglin stepped into the hall at the side of the healer. She was a luminous vision of loveliness, the dark green dress and raven-black hair throwing into relief alabaster white skin and delicately rosy lips. Her slight figure, and the careful way she moved with her wounded foot, made her appear fragile and vulnerable. A surging desire to protect and cherish her washed through the warrior like a tidal wave, even as he stared at the long, obsidian eyes, in whose opaque depths he saw still the eyes of the traitor. He tore away his gaze and examined the goblet in his hand very closely, and struggled to calm the tempest within him.

Thalanes made her way to another part of the table. Maeglin bowed to Elrond at the head of the table, rethought it halfway and sank into a curtsey. She ventured a small smile at the Lord of Rivendell, as he gestured her to take a seat near him, between two identical _ellyn_ , and introduced them to her as his sons.

 _Listen well, speak little,_ she reminded herself.

“How are you feeling, young lady?” asked Elrond in Quenya.

There was a brief moment’s hesitation, as she pondered whether to reply in Quenya. Hearing the other voices speaking Sindarin around the table decided her. “Much better. _Le hannon, hîr-nín_ ,” she replied softly in her oddly-accented Sindarin. “Please, call me Lómiel.”

Further down the table, Glorfindel almost choked on a mouthful of his dinner. He was grateful, as Erestor thumped him on the back and he gulped down some water, that the girl’s head was turned away towards Elladan, who was heaping roast pheasant onto her plate.

“Lómiel,” Elrond repeated thoughtfully.

“For want of a better name, lord.”

“So you do not recall your true name? Or your family?” asked Elrond.

She paused over a morsel of pheasant, frowned, and looked troubled.

“Nothing of your history?”

The long black lashes lowered with what she hoped looked like maidenly distress. “Flashes. Images. Nothing more.” She bit her lower lip as she remembered Penlod’s daughter doing forlornly each time the Lord of the Mole had curtly ordered her to stop following him around.

“Well, let us not speak of this now,” said her host gently, for he was a father, and he thought for a moment of Arwen. “Enjoy your dinner, and regain strength and wellness.” He turned to one of the twins. “Elrohir, pass our guest some of that stew.”

Elrohir helped her to a spoonful of stew and bestowed on her a broad grin.

“ _Le hannon._ ” She smiled at him with what she hoped was maidenly gratitude. It came across as a tentative, lopsided little smile. Shy even.

Glorfindel’s heart lurched at that shy smile. Again. He felt his insides twist, felt for a moment he could not breathe. Was everything this maiden did going to cause seismological shifts in his world?

Maeglin ate quietly and listened attentively to Elrond and his sons talk about a battle involving dwarves, orcs, elves and men, and filed away in her mind names like Dale, Erebor, Mirkwood, Dain, and Thranduil. In the meantime, her eyes discreetly roamed over the others at the table. They lingered curiously on an aged, bearded one too tall to be a dwarf, and a small, beardless one too mature in face to be a young dwarf. Her eyes hardened as they rested on several mortals scattered among the elves around the table, for her hatred for the Secondborn lingered.

She counted a hundred and nine in total, including the servers who went to and from the kitchen. She never forgot a face, and she felt reassured that no one else in this room was known to her apart from Glorfindel. From Thalanes, she had learned that another seven hundred or so lived in dwellings scattered across the valley. No matter. For now, she could feel reasonably secure in this house.

She caught a number of people looking at her.

From most, _ellyn_ or _ellith_ , it was a curious look, accompanied by a friendly nod and welcoming smile as their eyes met. She schooled her face to smile back.

From some _ellyn_ , it was a look which, though unfamiliar to her experience, she quickly understood. She knew the way some Gondolindrin _ellith_ had gazed at her when she had been their prince, and unattainable: a certain mix of admiration, wistful yearning and coyness; an appeal to be seen, and admired, and desired. At this table, it was different. She saw appreciative glances thrown her way, an occasional murmur discussing her looks as though she were a fine painting or piece of jewellery. And when their eyes met hers frankly, the smiles ranged from the kindly and admiring to the graciously charming. At least the Valar had sent her back in a form that was appealing, and not ugly as a troll. All these looks testified to the simple love of beauty deep in the souls of all the Eldar. There was nothing that smelled of desire, and she remembered that she was still but a child to them.

And, just once, she caught Glorfindel gazing at her as he sat halfway down the table. Saw, in his face, a brief moment of confusion and embarrassment; the way he hurriedly looked away; the pretended indifference.

“Glorfindel, you have not been listening to a _word_ I said,” she heard Lord Erestor say testily to the warrior.

Glorfindel did not recognize Maeglin Lómion, then. That gaze did not possess the shrewd scrutiny of one who suspects or seeks to penetrate a disguise. Maeglin, having for so long desired and struggled not to desire, recognized it. A corner of her mouth curled in a smirk as she ate a mouth-watering spoonful of wild berry mousse for dessert. Who would ever have guessed it? That the Lord of the Golden Flower, charming, confident, carefree, linked with so many ladies in gossip, yet settling down with none, might have a weakness for under-aged maidens? And to think that he, in all other things, had always been the epitome of such integrity, such nobility, such high-mindedness.

To know your enemy’s weakness is power. To _be_ your enemy’s weakness is a source of gleeful triumph like no other.

Such irony. To be desired as she might once have desired, and to reject that desire as she had once been rejected. For, of one thing she was certain: she was done with love, done with desire. She would not have the Lord of the Golden Flower if he was the last _ellon_ in _Eä_ and grovelled abjectly at her feet.

As she laid down her spoon and dabbed her lips daintily with a corner of her napkin (she was warming to her role), Elrond summoned Erestor and Glorfindel and they made their way with her to his study for a private chat.

She sat in a comfortable armchair, careful to set her knees together and fold her hands in her lap in the most maidenly fashion. Then she looked coolly at the three _ellyn_ before her. Elrond sat in a large chair across from her, Erestor stood on his right, and Glorfindel leaned against a bookcase somewhere to her right, his face shielded and expressionless, his eyes looking anywhere but at her.

“You mentioned you could recall images,” said Elrond. “Could you describe these to us? Perhaps we could help you.”

“I sometimes see a dark forest with tall trees growing so close, no light could shine through their branches.” Nan Elmoth.

“Mirkwood, perhaps,” said Erestor.

“And high mountains. Shrouded with mist and topped with snow.” The Echoriad.

“That sounds like the Hithaeglir,” murmured Elrond.

“And blue mountains surrounded by forests,” she added.

“The Ered Luin,” said Glorfindel quietly. He had got that one right, she thought.

“Or both,” said Erestor.

“Anything else?”

“No.” Of course, she would skip Angband.

“Do you recall travelling a great deal?” asked Elrond.

“No.”

“Any faces? People?”

“No,” she lied.

Elrond frowned as he gazed into those opaque, obsidian eyes beneath their long lashes. Their depths were unreadable, inscrutable. He could usually smell a lie from a mile off, but this child’s pale, oval face and immobile, perfect features told him nothing. He touched Vilya on his hand. The gem on the ring was gently warm to his touch, saying there was no danger or evil here.

“You should of course rest here till you are fully healed, but you are most welcome to stay on, if you wish,” Elrond said.

“You are most kind. I am grateful for your hospitality.” She inclined her head gracefully.

“Hopefully you will recall more soon.”

“Yes, hopefully,” she said neutrally.

“Till you regain your memory, or wish to depart, this house shall be as your home,” said Elrond.

_“Le athae, hîr-nín.”_

The Hall of Fire rang with the clear, melodious notes of Lindir’s voice as they entered and were seated. Elrond sat in his great chair, Erestor at his side, and Maeglin was beckoned to an empty seat next to Thalanes. Glorfindel went to the back of the hall and poured himself another goblet of wine. It took a great deal to get him drunk and he was nowhere near it, he knew, but he just needed that comforting warmth to obscure the new confusion and ache in his spirit.

“For the next piece,” Lindir was now saying, “My lute shall accompany young Estel, who has composed a ballad in the Common Tongue for the entertainment of our dear elf-friend of the Shire, Bilbo Baggins.”

“Splendid,” said Elrond, beaming with pride at the eleven-year-old mortal boy standing solemnly at Lindir’s side on the hearth. “And what is your ballad about, my boy?”

“What language is this?” murmured Maeglin quietly to Thalanes.

“Oh, Westron! I shall translate for you,” said the healer.

“Ladies and lords, elves, men, wizard, and hobbit,” said the boy with a bow, “I give you— _The Ballad of Glorfindel the Brave!_ ” And Lindir strummed his lute with a dramatic flourish.

“What??” Glorfindel protested from the back of the hall. “No!! Estel, please—” His face was pained as he looked at his sword-fighting student. Not now. Especially not in front of _her_.

“And I invite the esteemed subject of my song to take this seat of honour here,” said the boy airily, with a flourish of his hand towards a cushioned chair by the hearth.

“Estel, people don’t want to hear this!” Glorfindel pleaded, turning red. “It’s been done to death!”

“But not in the Common Tongue, Glorfindel!” called one person from a corner of the room.

“And not by Estel!” said another.

“And I’ve not heard your tale before, Glorfindel my good fellow,” said Bilbo.

“Well then, by all means carry on, Estel. But if you will excuse me—” And Glorfindel took a step towards the door at the back.

“Come, come, Glorfindel! Be a good sport!” said Gandalf.

“Glorfindel, _how could you_ miss a ballad composed by me in your honour?” said Estel, folding his arms and giving Glorfindel his most wounded look.

“Oh, Eru. . .very well.” He sighed, drained his wine cup, set it down, made his way to the chair in front, and avoided looking at anyone in the hall.

“ _The Ballad of Glorfindel the Brave_ ,” Estel began.

 _“Sing hey! for Glorfindel, the fair, the brave!_  
_The survivors of Gondolin he didst save!_  
_Oh sing of his deeds and his face so fair,  
_ _Sing of his valour and his golden hair.”_

“Kill me. Kill me now,” said Glorfindel in a barely audible voice, hiding his face in his hand.

“Oh, don’t worry. _That_ will be coming soon enough,” said Erestor with an evil smile.

  _“High through the mountain crags did their way_  
_Weave treacherous on that fateful day._  
_A narrow, perilous path they didst tread,  
__Their brave warriors forging the way ahead._

_“Sudden descended the balrog wreath’d in smoke!_  
_His flaming whip smiting with deadly stroke!_  
_High as a hill was the demon of dread,  
_ _Fiery flames flew from its whip and its head!_

 _"The wounded and women did dearly pay—  
_ _On them, at the rear, did the balrog prey—”_

“Hold it! We did _not_ leave the women and wounded at the rear without protection!” protested Glorfindel indignantly. “We placed the women and the sick in the middle. My men and I were at the rear!”

“It’s more dramatic this way, Glorfindel,” said Estel. “It’s called ‘poetic licence’!”

“It’s called ‘distorting history’! Erestor should have taught you better than that.”

Estel grinned and carried on.

_“The women all raised a cry of great fear—”_

“Estel, Princess Idril and the women were very brave and did _not_ scream any more than the men did.”

“Very well then, that’s easily changed—

  _“The people all raised a cry of great fear!  
__Then charged he, Glorfindel the brave, to the rear—”_

 “I was _already_ at the rear!” protested Glorfindel in despair.

  _“And the balrog’s flames his fair eyes did sear.”_

 “If you sear my eyes, Estel, how do you expect me to fight?”

 “It’s figurative, not literal. I just needed a rhyme with ‘rear’. Oh, all right. How about: _At the balrog’s flames, his fair eyes did peer.”_

 Glorfindel leaned back in his chair with a groan. Gandalf was chuckling and wiping tears from his eyes.

Estel continued with a smile: _“The sun beat down—”_

“It was night,” said Glorfindel in a very small voice, without moving.

 _“The moon shone down—”_ sang Estel without missing a beat:

 _“The moon shone down on his armour of gold_  
_As he leapt on the balrog with ardour bold!_  
_So drave he the demon from rock to rock,  
_ _Now hamm’ring its helm, now hewing its hock._

 _“Shrieked loud the fiend as its arm was snagged  
_ _And grappling they wrestled high on a crag—”_

 “I have no recollection of hewing any hocks. And I didn’t ‘snag’ the arm. I cut it right off at the elbow.”

“Glorfindel, if you can find me a better word that rhymes with ‘crag’, I’ll take it.”

Glorfindel closed his mouth and looked resigned.

 _“Then Glorfindel’s heart did dauntless_ swell,  
_And thrust he deep with his sword so fell!”_

 “My _dirk_. I used my dirk. It’s a foot long. I lost my sword when it got stuck in the creature’s shoulder.”

“Oh, good. It alliterates better,” said Estel, unfazed.

 _“And stabbed he deep with his dirk so fell!_  
_Then blackest balrog blood did spurt!  
_ _Bellowed the fiend at its fatal hurt!_

_“Glorfindel’s eyes burned with victory bright_  
_As down his foe plummeted from the height._  
_But falling, the fiend grasped his golden hair,  
_ _And falling, it dragged down Glorfindel fair!”_

Glorfindel had slouched so low into his chair by now that only the top of his golden head could be seen by those at the back.

 _“Then grievously didst the people weep_  
_When the eagle didst from the ravine deep,_  
_With strong wings beating an ascent steep,  
_ _Our brave-heart’s body bear._

 _“Great wailing and sorrow did abound_  
_As they buried their hero in a mound._  
_Golden flowers still flourish in the ground  
_ _Where lies Glorfindel fair._

 _“Sing hey! for Glorfindel, the fair, the brave!_  
_The survivors of Gondolin he didst save!_  
_Forever his deeds and his face so fair  
_ _Shall be sung, and of course—his golden hair!”_

The room thundered with laughter and applause. Smiling triumphantly, Estel pulled Glorfindel out of his chair to join him to take a bow. The tall warrior and the mortal boy exchanged friendly punches in the shoulder, hugged each other with a grin, and swept extravagant bows to the gathering in the hall.

Someone in the hall was not quite laughing.

Maeglin had not known till now that survivors had escaped, that Idril had escaped, nor that Glorfindel had perished protecting them from the balrog.

Glorfindel and Maeglin. They had both died in the fall of Gondolin, and both fallen to their deaths from a great height. They had both been reborn. And there the similarity ended.

One was a hero, one a traitor; one a saviour, one a destroyer. The reborn golden warrior would be forever beloved, gloriously sung of in the histories of elves and men for all time. For the other, there would only be curses and hate. A past so heinous it must be buried, hidden, kept locked in the most secret places of her being, and never, ever breathed to any that walked the earth.

She sat very still and silent as Lindir launched into a soulful rendition of _Gil-Galad was an Elven-king_ and many joined in the chorus till few eyes in the hall were dry.

Only one small detail alleviated Maeglin’s heartache somewhat.

When she thought of how the glorious elflord’s famed golden tresses had ultimately been his downfall, she could almost smirk.

 

_***************************************************************************_

Glossary

Hîr-nín (S) – my lord

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene with Estel’s song in the Hall of Fire is a shameless rip-off of “Glorfindel Fair” by AntigoneQ on FF.net, which I read a year back. I deliberately refused to reread it, hoping that my version of the Glorfindel ballad would not be influenced too much by hers – but when you read it I’m sure you will see a lot of similarities.  
> As for the fact that Westron is not English and would not have rhymed in that way...  
> I plead poetic license like Estel.


	8. Sleepless in Imladris

Glorfindel tossed in his bed, buried his face again in his pillow with a groan, and prayed to Irmo for sleep.

After most of the household had retired for the night, Glorfindel had remained in the Hall of Fire with Lindir and a handful of elves, singing and talking and drinking more wine. But it had been futile. The balrog slayer could not shake the strange girl’s eyes and face—and body—from his thoughts, nor the feelings that came with them.  

Shortly past midnight, he had headed to his room. It was only his third night without sleep, and he did not physically require it, but he sought it, longed for it, fervently. It offered him the only escape possible from thoughts of obsidian eyes and bare white skin: the blissful oblivion of slumber, which, for him, was usually so deep that he seldom ever recalled his dreams once he woke. And he normally fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

Not this night.

It was almost two hours before he began to drift into sleep. And just then, a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the silence of the night and shocked him awake again. A scream of such imaginable torment that he leaped out of bed, quickly pulled on his leggings and ran out into the corridor with his sword drawn, anticipating an attack.

The corridor was dark and empty. And silent.

Had he been dreaming? The other five bedchambers in this wing would be empty, all of his neighbours having sailed west over the past millennium. He sighed, and pushed back his golden hair from his face. His head was throbbing slightly from the amount of wine he had ingested earlier. He was turning back to his door when a second shriek rang out.

The room two doors away from his. He threw open the door, entered with his sword raised and ready, and froze.

In one glance he saw that there was only one person in the room—a slender figure in a white shift lying upon the bed, thrashing wildly. Another of those terrible cries of torment rended the air. Even before he saw the face that was obscured by the curtain of black hair, he knew who it was. Dropping his sword next to the bed, he quickly went to her and caught her by the shoulders, his heart wrenching with sympathetic pain.

“ _Echuio, meleth-nín!_ ” he said loudly as he grasped her shoulders and shook her. _Stars of Varda,_ he thought, stunned, _what did I just call her?_ He was in such shock at what he had uttered, that when she lashed out with a furious snarl, her fist caught the side of his face, and she kicked him so powerfully in the guts with her good foot that he was momentarily winded. Catching the flailing arms, he gathered her tightly against himself and sat on the bed, pinning her arms to her side, her back against his chest so that her thrashing legs could not kick him again. In a voice shaking with rage, she was spitting out Quenya expletives of such vitriol that Glorfindel was stupefied.

He drew a deep breath. “ _Rainë,_ ” he said as he held her, his voice calm and commanding. Closing his eyes, he called upon the healing of the _fëa_ he had learned in Estë’s halls.

And found himself pulled into her mind.

Felt shackles on his hands, felt excruciating pain twisting through his guts. Smelt the dank, foul, fetid smell of a dungeon. Saw two molten red eyes in a dark visage beneath the incongruous strangeness of a pure, blinding radiance that held at bay the oppressive darkness that lay all around. And heard a form of Black Speech in a terrible deep voice like an earthquake:

_Where is it, slave – the secret city? I grow weary of your insolence._

And a familiar, low voice growling out an enraged, exhausted reply, barely audible, in Quenya: _“Never, filth-face. Go *@#*#@ —”_

A string of colourful curses followed by another excruciating spasm of torment. And the screaming.

Into the darkness Glorfindel began to sing: a song learned across the ocean, into which was woven notes of the First Music and phrases of the Eldest Speech that few among the Quendi knew. A gentle, golden light emanated from him and danced over the form of the girl in his arms. The dark visage in the nightmare faded, the foul stench receded, and the white brilliance mounted in the Iron Crown swallowed up the darkness.

Then he was back in the room, and opened his eyes. The girl lay still in his arms. He cradled her gently for a moment and gazed down at her with both tenderness and dread, still overwhelmed by what he had witnessed. _Who, and what, are you?_ he thought.

Looking at the bed, he saw that she had fallen asleep on top of the covers. Books lay scattered on the floor, and a burnt-out lamp sat on a table near the bed. She had been reading then, and fallen asleep, probably, as she read. The white shift she wore was not a night gown but the under-garment of the dress she had worn at dinner, which was carelessly draped over a chair by the window.

He turned back the bed covers, laid her gently down, and covered her with the blanket. He was picking up the books from the floor and looking at their titles when her eyes began to focus and scan the room in confusion, still glazed from their terrible dreams.

She gasped in shock at the sight of Glorfindel and sat bolt upright in bed, glaring at him with huge, dazed black eyes. The curtain of black hair, slightly damp with sweat, fell over half her face. Her hand had reached under the pillow instinctively, as though it expected to find a dagger there.

 “ _What_ are—”she blurted out in Quenya, then hurriedly switched to Sindarin. “What are _you_ doing here?” she managed in a ragged, accusing voice.

Glorfindel had been in numerous other situations which involved a bedchamber in the middle of the night, a skimpily clad maiden, and himself shirtless and barefoot. In no other situation, however, had the maiden been so displeased to see him. He set the books down on the bedside table, and noted how her fists clenched and her mouth set hard as he drew too close. Taking a step back away from her, he said calmly, as though all of this were perfectly normal, “You were having a nightmare, and I heard the screams and came. Please don’t be alarmed.” He observed her dilated pupils and the clammy sweat on her brow, and how heavily she was breathing. “Does your foot hurt? How are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“You’re trembling.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she said between her teeth.

“I am a healer. . .and. . .it is clear to me you have had a great shock. Please let me prepare something that will help you recover. I shall return shortly.”

And he picked up his sword and left before she could say anything. He went briefly to his room. Set down the sword. Snatched up a tunic. Pulled it on as he ran down the stairs to the healing halls. Prepared a calming draught. When he returned, she was sitting at the foot of the bed, wrapped in a dark-grey, long-sleeved robe. She watched him warily as he entered, as though suspicious that he might pounce on her. Her breathing had evened out somewhat, but there were deep shadows under her eyes and she looked exhausted.

“Please have this,” he said, holding out the cup to her. “It will calm you and help you to sleep without dreams.”

She made no move to take it. “ _Le hannon_ , _hîr-nín_. But I shall not be in need of it.”

“As it pleases you. I shall leave it here all the same, in case you might need it later,” he said, and set it down on the table. “Forgive me for intruding upon you. I wish you a good night and dreams more pleasant than the last you had. _Losto vae_.” And with a deep bow to her, he left, closing the door quietly behind him.

Maeglin went to the door, pushed a chair against it, then returned to the bed and collapsed upon it.

It had taken all her pride, strength and will to contain her trembling and weakness before him. Now he was gone, her wounded foot throbbed with pain, and she could barely move for weariness.

She still felt the aftermath of the nightmare in her body and her mind. To combat it, she focused her attention on Glorfindel.

If that idiot thought that she was going to consume anything prepared by him, he was sadly mistaken. His reputation as a prankster had been foremost on her mind as he held out that cup. He had placed a special herb in Penlod’s cup at Galdor’s wedding, so that when the grave and lofty Lord of the Pillar and the Snow had risen to toast the happy couple, half his tongue had gone numb and he had uttered perfect nonsense in the most solemn of voices. And who could forget the time Glorfindel had dyed Salgant’s face blue as the Lord of the Harp had lain in a drunken slumber at Yestarë? It did not matter to her that Glorfindel’s behaviour in her room had been perfectly proper, and even subdued. He had always been most dangerous when he looked most innocent.

Also on her mind, and she reluctantly and angrily faced it now, had been an awareness of her vulnerability, in this accursed female body.

There had been too much marketplace gossip in Gondolin about all the women seen leaving the golden lord’s chambers late at night. For all the high and lofty morals of the _Calaquendi_ in Gondolin, Maeglin, raised with very different values in the Nandorin realm of Nan Elmoth, had always been sceptical of the claims by both Glorfindel and the various _ellith_ that nothing had ever happened. His easy charm with the _ellith_ had always reeked of womanizer to Maeglin, and now that she was herself one, she had feared he might actually make some attempt at seduction. Looking at him as he had towered over her, shirtless and muscled, she had been painfully aware of how much weaker this stupid female body was. She knew how to fight, but she had to concede her poor chances against the very master who had trained her to fight. Had he _wanted_ to, he could have easily overpowered her and had his way—as her own father had with her mother at their first meeting—and her mother had been one strong woman. The result had been Maeglin’s birth a year later. And had Maeglin not, as the prince of Gondolin, wanted the same with Idril? And had Maeglin not recognized that look in Glorfindel’s eyes at dinner?  

When he had left, she had felt a tiny twinge of disappointment, which she quickly denied. Relieved. She was relieved. What a relief to be rid of that dolt. She would leave the chair against the door, and if none of the doors in this house had bolts, no matter, she knew how to easily fashion one herself. It was not just about avoiding being deflowered; with that idiot around, she wanted to ensure she did not end up with her face blue or with itching powder in her shoes. For that latter reason alone, her chambers in Gondolin had been locked and bolted.

She un-bandaged her foot and swore. It was red and swollen. She would be limping back to the halls of healing for treatment that day.

Desperately weary as she was, after that horrible nightmare she did not dare go back to sleep.

She re-filled and lit the lamp, and continued to read about the reign of Gil-galad in the Second Age.

 

Glorfindel shut the door of his own room behind him. He leaned his back against it. And slowly slid down till he was sitting on the floor.

And suddenly the mightiest elven-warrior in Ennor was shaking, shaking uncontrollably. Only by the grace of the Valar, he thought, had he managed to speak to her and behave with such self-control and composure.

He had been struggling, ever since before dinner, not to think. Not to think about this girl. Why she was familiar. How he felt about her. But now, it all came down upon him, and everything in him was in complete chaos.

At the edges of Glorfindel’s mind throughout dinner and the talk in Elrond’s study had been the thought that this elfmaid might possibly be the distant descendant of some kin of Eöl the _Moriquendë_ , or maybe even of Maeglin, who might have fathered a child in Nan Elmoth he never spoke of, since the laws of the _Laegrim_ were not as those of the _Calaquendi._

But that nightmare. Oh, Eru, that nightmare changed everything.

As one born in Beleriand and highly favoured by the Valar, the pure-hearted warrior of light had not been counted by them among the rebellious. He had been permitted to fight in the War of Wrath, as even Finrod the beloved had not been. Assigned by Eonwë to fight under Ingwë’s banner, Glorfindel had stood with the Vanyarin host, following the fall of Thangorodrim, and looked on the face of the Great Enemy, now bound in chains. He recognized what had been in that girl’s nightmare. The stench of Angband was still in his nostrils, the pain of the torture in his very bones, and the sound of Morgoth’s voice echoed in his mind. He wanted to deny it, wanted to explain it away, but he could not. The exchange of words between the dark lord and his prisoner. The prisoner’s voice.

 _Yes, that voice._ It could be none other but Maeglin Lómion.

That Maeglin had resisted Morgoth, had fought back, earned him a measure of respect from Glorfindel. It painted him in a far better light than Pengolodh’s history did. But the horror that lay before Glorfindel was this: that if he accepted that this was Maeglin, by some special dispensation of the Valar reborn in Ennor in the body of an elfmaid. . .then. . . _Oh, Eru, then. . ._

He could still feel her warmth against his body, her fragile bones as she had struggled so wildly in his arms, and now, as he remembered it, he was wracked with longing and lust. Now, he fought to suppress memories of the prince of Gondolin as he had once been: strong of shoulder, almost as tall as Glorfindel in frame, with a long stride that recalled the feline grace of a mountain cat. Glorfindel could see him standing sharp-eyed and silent next to the King’s throne dressed all in black, or sparring with a demonic fury in the training room, or wielding hammer at his anvil, his muscles rippling and gleaming with sweat. . .Glorfindel pressed his palms against his eyes until he saw stars, desire and repulsion warring within him. _Eru, have mercy, deliver me._

 _If_ this was Maeglin—his despairing heart clung to the “ _if_ ”—why would the Valar have sent the traitor back to Ennor, and not just anywhere in Ennor, but close to Imladris? And why, _why_ as an _elleth_? So dark was Glorfindel’s torment that he could not believe this was not a scheme born of darkness to bring ruin on Imladris, or at the very least on him. It was destroying him now. It had happened before that Aman had not been as secure as the Valar had thought. As the Necromancer’s power rose in the East, had Mandos’ own halls over in Aman been breached? And was the return of Maeglin a plot to bring evil into this haven of light? It must be so. Mandos would not release a soul from his halls without the approval of Ilúvatar the all-wise, or who had not completed the cycle of cleansing and restoration. The screams he had heard just now and the dream he had witnessed were not from a soul who had been cleansed and restored.

And _if_ this was Maeglin, did she know her host was the half-elven descendant of the mortal she had hated so deeply in her last life? Or that Estel was as well? Glorfindel remained the protector of the descendants of Turgon, and of Tuor: Elrond, Elladan, Elrohir, and Estel. He would watch her closely, watch her like a hawk. Sent back as an elfmaid, if she meant mischief, her weapons might be stealth, and poison. Yes, he must keep her _very close. ._ .

And at once a yearning to hold her again consumed him.

His resolve to take her down could not be trusted, if she were an enemy, so compromised was his heart. He had to share this with someone. He could not do it alone, not in this pathetic state.

Erestor? Elrond?

No, no, no, he too easily persuaded himself. They would put down the dream to an excess of wine at dinnertime. And truly, it was a crazy, far-fetched tale. Better to keep this a secret, and watch how it unfolds.

And, whispered a quiet voice in his breast, mayhap this has been done by the merciful will of the Valar and of Eru Ilúvatar. Mayhap a remorseful traitor is simply being given the grace of a second chance, a fresh start in a new world. . .

So eagerly did he listen to that voice that he could barely trust it. Immediately he recalled how impeccably Maeglin had always carried out his duties. He may not have been likeable, but nothing would have led anyone to think him _evil_. He had been heroic and brave in battle, and, one could tell from the dream, he had been obviously strong under torture. Up to a point.

Glorfindel stared across his room in the darkness, troubled, feeling the agony of the torture wrench through his body again. How would he have fared, in Maeglin Lómion’s place?

Would he have been resolute, as Maedhros Fëanorion had been?

Would he have had a breaking point, as Maeglin had his?

He liked to believe that he would have held strong, but honestly, he did not know.

But if he believed all this to be an act of Eru, why should the reborn traitor be sent here? _And why was this happening to him?_ And suddenly the whispers in his mind were of a divine punishment for his failings, and they said that he was no longer the favoured of the Valar, that he had fallen from grace.

Exhausted in _fëa_ more than in body, his mind wandered to the scent of her black hair and its silken feel against his cheek and mouth as he had struggled with her. He wanted to comfort her through all her future nightmares, every night from henceforth. He wanted to flee from Imladris, and never look into her black eyes again. He groaned in anguish, and leaned his head back against the oak door.

He knew that if he lay down now, he would not find sleep. He would have given much for the oblivion to be found in a cup of that sleeping draught. He should have taken it when she declined.

The sky was already lightening in the east. With a sigh, he dragged himself to his feet.

Two rooms away, Maeglin flung the undrunk draught out onto the beds of flowers below her window.

 

***************************************************************************************************************

Glossary

Echuio, meleth-nín (S) – wake up, my love

Rainë (Q) - peace


	9. A Shadow That Shines

Maeglin stiffened when her keen elven ears heard, through the heavy oak doors of the library, voices in the corridor outside.

“What are _you_ doing skulking out here?”

“I am _not_ skulking. I am. . .on my way to get a book on. . .Gondolin.”

“Uh huh. You. Read. A book on Gondolin.”

Maeglin could imagine the counsellor’s raised eyebrow.

“I want to borrow Pengolodh’s book for Estel, since you have obviously been teaching the boy inaccuracies.”

Their exchange gave Maeglin time to replace the two books in Quenya she had been reading on their shelves. And no—neither of them had been _The Fall of Gondolin_ ; one glance at her former teacher Pengolodh’s tome and she had recoiled from the shelf with an involuntary shiver. One of her chosen books had been on weapons of Ennor, written by a smith of the Last Alliance. The other had been a book on the dwarves of Beleriand by Findaráto Ingoldo that she had felt oddly and nostalgically drawn to, despite the fact that she associated dwarves with her father Eöl’s oppressive and sullen presence. Those visits to Nogrod remained, in her memory, a time of relative innocence. And of less misery.

“It was not I who taught him about Gondolin!” the indignant voice outside the library was saying. “It was the twins! It has fallen to me to cover the first two thousand years of Númenorean history over the past three years.”

“That makes no sense. The _twins_ are teaching Estel Firstborn history and _you_ are covering the Secondborn?”

“Elrohir said, and I quote, ‘We’ll take the fun stuff.’ So take it up with them, be less quick with your accusations, and stick to teaching Estel geography and swordfighting. Are you not supposed to be having a lesson with him now?”

The heavy double doors swung open, and Erestor and Glorfindel entered, glowering at each other.

Maeglin had unhurriedly picked out an innocuous Sindarin volume on the flora and fauna of Eriador, and calmly walked to a window seat. The library was empty save for her and Idhren the librarian, who was humming as he shelved books in the astronomy section. She lifted her head to look casually at the two lords as the doors opened.

The two lords and the librarian greeted each other, then the lords turned to look at her. The golden-haired lord wore an air of studied nonchalance. An expression of mild surprise crossed his fair face as his eyes met hers. She had seen it better feigned.

“Lord Erestor, Lord Glorfindel.” She set her book down and made to rise from her seat.

“Maiden Lómiel,” murmured the balrog slayer with a bow, and vanished into the history aisle as his ears turned slightly red.

“Well met. No, no, pray do not rise, maiden Lómiel,” said Erestor. “It gladdens my heart to see a lass who loves learning. How does your foot?”

“Healing very well, I thank you.”

“Most of the maidens are in the gardens, gathering blossoms and dancing and singing the songs of spring. Once your foot is healed, you might join them, instead of being cooped up in the house.”

Maeglin managed to keep her expression deadpan. “That sounds delightful, Lord Erestor.” She could think of few things more nauseating than sitting in a tree with giggling elfmaids, putting flowers in her hair and singing silly songs. “Would you know of some useful occupation I might undertake whilst I am here? I dislike having idle hands.”

Erestor smiled approvingly at her. “Well, that could most certainly be arranged. Would your hands like to assist the chefs in our kitchens?”

A book fell with a loud thud in the history aisle. Idhren’s head turned sharply in alarm, and Glorfindel emerged with his face slightly flushed, looking as though he would have liked to bash Erestor with the large book he held in his hand.

“It is hot and hard work in the kitchens, Erestor!” said the golden-haired warrior. And there were knives. . .and access to the food of the household. “Surely not suited to. . .to a lass with such. . .such fine hands!”

Erestor eyed Maeglin’s delicate features and slender white hands, fine and patrician even by the standards of the elves. “Hmmm. Do you like sewing or embroidery, my dear?” the councillor asked, without acknowledging that Glorfindel had spoken.

“Well—no,” she demurred.

“Ah, I know just the thing!” said Erestor. “Since Nestaloth returns to Lothlórien in a week, there will be need for another healer in the halls. What say you to that, Lómiel?”

Glorfindel went pale. Access to scalpels, and to every herb and poison known to the Quendi. “Erestor, after spending so much time as a patient of the halls, Lómiel surely does not want to spend more days cooped up there!”

“Your reasoning astounds me, Glorfindel. You have been a patient there often enough yourself. By your logic, you should not wish to serve there as a healer either.”

“Surely there is something else,” said Glorfindel. “Weaving. Or. . .or playing the harp. Or the flute.”

“I should be glad to learn the ways of a healer,” Maeglin cut in abruptly, and with finality.

Glorfindel was only partially able to hide his dismay.

“Excellent. I shall let Lord Elrond know, and we shall arrange for your apprenticeship. Rest well tomorrow, child. On the day after, you may report to the healing halls.” Erestor turned to Glorfindel with a glare. “Should you not be going? It has been time for Estel’s lesson since ten minutes past.”

With an incoherent murmur and a graceful bow, Glorfindel turned to go, showing the book he was borrowing to Idhren before he exited.

 

Maeglin was still silently seething with anger when Erestor left sometime later. Anger at this fragile body. Anger at both Glorfindel and Erestor for the choices they had offered—and for those that they had withheld. There were a number of _ellith_ in the guard, yet both lords had taken one look at her dainty frame and not even thought to offer her training as a warrior. There was a smithy out at the back, next to the stables. That would never be offered to her either.

And Glorfindel had enraged her by the way he had interrupted. Who was he, to speak for her, instead of letting her speak for herself? But she had bitten back her indignation, mindful of the disguise she needed to preserve.

Her first impulse, the morning after Glorfindel had barged into her bedchamber, had been to imperiously demand that Erestor give her a chamber elsewhere, anywhere, just nowhere near the balrog-slayer. But on what grounds? Glorfindel had not done anything objectionable besides enter her room out of concern and prepare medicine for her. She did not wish to call attention to her nightmare, or indeed to herself in any way. For the same reason, she would meekly accept the offer of an apprenticeship in the halls of healing.

Maeglin gave a small sigh, as she stared unseeing at drawings of varieties of moss and dogwood in her book.

She was starting over. Again.

This time, the greatest struggle lay in adapting to this new body.

There had been another time, in another valley, when all had also been strange and new. In the space of a day, a young _ellon_ had lost both parents and had been smitten by the forbidden beauty of a cousin with grey eyes and golden hair. In comparison with the intense grief and despair of that time, this new season of adjustment was nothing. At least here, in Imladris, Maeglin could comprehend what was spoken—how amazing, that the language of the Quendi had varied less over millennia than between its tribes in Beleriand. And whereas the new prince of Gondolin had had every eye upon him as he took his place by Turgon’s throne, being a slender elf-maid of no great stature and no status allowed her to wander freely, unremarked, through this house, attracting friendly and admiring glances but no great interest. In Gondolin, for Maeglin’s first two years there, two or three lords or attendants had been assigned to the young prince from the moment he emerged from his chambers to the time he retired, giving him no space to mourn or indeed breathe. Fighting lessons, language lessons, history lessons, sciences, mathematics, literature, etiquette, hunts, war games, mountain hikes. His every sigh or frown or utterance had been noted and waited on. One of those lords in attendance in Gondolin had often been Glorfindel.

For the next two hours, the annoying golden-haired lord would be busy with Estel, and she would be free of his shadow trailing after her, thank Eru.

Two days ago, he had loitered in the healing halls while Thalanes tended Maeglin’s foot, ostensibly checking on the stocks of dried herbs, or poring over the pages of a book on herbal lore. During meals, he sat himself across from her at the great table and pretended not to watch her as she ate and talked to the twins. As she slowly walked in the house or ventured out onto the terrace, she had become aware of her stalker—not because of any noise he made, for he was a skilled and silent hunter, but because of a variety of other voices which would suddenly pipe up in his vicinity and give him away.

“ _Suilad_ , Glorfindel!”

“ _Ohhh,_ Lord Glorfindel! May I walk with you?” (flirty giggle)

“ _Le suilannon, hir-nín._ Is it not a lovely day?” (flirty laugh)

 “Ah, _there_ you are, Glorfindel! I have been looking for you!”

“Glor-fin-del!!! Are we having our lesson today? Can we go for a swim?”

“What in Ennor are you doing, Glorfindel? Did you lose something?”

Thus alerted, her sharp eyes began to catch occasional glimpses of him— a tell-tale gleam of gold. A shimmer at the corner of her eye, a ghostly reflection in a suit of armour along a hallway, or shining in a windowpane, or in a mirror.

The irony was not lost on the one who had perfected the art of stalking Idril for more than a hundred years at Gondolin. Maeglin’s black hair and garb had been eminently suited to that purpose. It isn’t tremendously effective stalking someone as silently as a shadow, she thought wryly, if you are a shadow with luminous golden hair.

 _Does he suspect?_ she had at first wondered, but Glorfindel had never been skilled at dissembling, and all she saw in his clear blue eyes whenever their eyes chanced to meet, was the same guilty, abashed yearning she had seen on that first evening in the dining hall.

She went out of the library and onto a garden terrace. In the distance, she saw Glorfindel running with Estel over a bridge and heading towards a waterfall. Away from the house. Good.

With a sigh of relief, she seated herself on one of the comfortable cushioned chairs on the terrace. Elladan and Elrohir were riding out, dressed for the hunt. They smiled and waved when they saw her, and when she waved back, she was surprised by how naturally her smile came.

The breeze brought to her the sweet harmony of elven voices singing in the trees, and the scent of the flowers of late spring.

For one brief, fleeting moment, Maeglin Lómiel felt her _fëa_ expand within her. A soft voice within whispered that the world was in order, and that life was good. She had never felt this way before, and as she sought to fathom it, the moment slipped away.

But if it had a name, she thought, maybe it was _peace_.


	10. Hands That Heal

“ _Ow!!_ Watch it, _peredhel_!” said Glorfindel, wincing.  

“You felt that? Hmmm. Sorry,” said Elrond, continuing his needlework unperturbed. Glorfindel had come in with a nasty shoulder wound from an orc blade, and Elrond was stitching him up.

“ _Ow!_ _Felt_ that? Elrond, what happened to the painkiller?”

“Did Lómiel not give you any?”

“She applied something— _Ow!”_

“That smells like wound disinfectant rather than anaesthetic ointment,” said Elrond, giving it a sniff.

“Well, apply it now.”

 “It is too late for an anaesthetic. Might as well just finish it off.”

“It is _never_ too late for painkillers!”

“You can take this. It is merely like ant bites.”

“ _Why_ do they always say that? I’d like to know what kind of ant bites like that! Fire ants from the Harad?”

“Come, come, be a hero.”

“Elrond, I have just had twenty stitches with _no painkiller_. I have had enough of being heroic for one day!”

“ _Eighteen_ stitches. It is your fault. Whatever possessed you to go out riding alone into the Rhudaur without armour?”

“It was a hot day.”

“You would give a verbal lashing to any of your warriors who used that as an excuse to wander into dangerous territory without armour.”

“Keep stitching, Elrond. Please. Let’s get this over with.”

“I thought balrog slayers were tough.”

“ _Peredhel_ , the balrog killed me in far less time than _you_ are taking— _Oww!”_

Lord Elrond was not being a sadist. He had been patching up the elf sitting in the chair before him for five thousand years, and had seen the warrior take injuries far much more horrendous with unflinching stoicism. Glorfindel would have kept fighting through pain many times more excruciating than this, but sitting still in a chair and being stitched always tried his patience so sorely—especially without painkillers—that he tended to indulge his inner child and whinge like a big baby.

Most _ellith_ healers would have fought each other for the privilege of stitching the golden lord’s wound, but the Lord of Imladris usually opted to do it himself, out of affection and friendship. Elrond and his Commander were fairly formal with each other in public, but in the treatment room, the familiarity of five thousand years of friendship kicked in, and they fell into a colloquial mix of Quenya and Sindarin with a smattering of Westron thrown in, and Glorfindel would jokingly call Elrond “ _peredhel_ ”.

Around the corner from the treatment room, in the preparation area of the healing halls, a black-haired young maiden sat rolling bandages, her shoulders shaking with silent mirth as she listened to the voices carrying loud and clear from the treatment room, an unholy smile on her lovely face. It was so delicious hearing the Lord of the Golden Flower being tortured.

This was the first time she had heard Glorfindel and Elrond converse in this informal manner, and she did sit up and take notice of one word. _Peredhel_.

Half-elf?

She knew of one half-elf.

She had tried to throw him down from a city wall.

 

* * *

It was summer. Maeglin had been in Imladris for almost a month now. If she was still sullenly resentful of her new body, she had adapted to it fairly well. Though she still cursed and grumbled under her breath whenever she had to take a piss, there had been no accidents in the privy. She still walked with a long, manly stride if she was certain none were looking, but she had quickly mastered the dainty, gliding steps of the other ellith in the house.

Thalanes had welcomed her at the healing hall as an apprentice gladly. She learned how to gather and prepare herbs, measure and prepare them for medicines, bandage wounds, and do simple suturing. Enough minor injuries came in each week to give the apprentice practice for her new skills. In addition to the occasional kitchen help with a burned hand, broken fingers from swordfighting practice, or elves who had fallen out of trees or twisted an ankle dancing, there were not-too-infrequent skirmishes with orcs and wargs in the surrounding countryside. There were also daily hunting expeditions sent out, on which accidents could happen.

Unfortunately for Maeglin, Glorfindel came into the hall frequently. Sometimes it was to tend warriors who were wounded. Sometimes he himself was wounded. When Estel came to learn herbal lore and wound dressing, Glorfindel always accompanied him. Whenever Elrond came by to treat patients, Glorfindel would be at his side as well. The golden lord would extend to Maeglin only the most commonplace of courtesies, then keep his distance from her.

Maeglin yawned. There are few things more mind-numbingly boring than rolling bandages, and she had been glad of the entertainment from the treatment room. Still, boring is peaceful. She would endure all this a while longer, till she could figure out her next move.

Anyway. . . _Peredhel?_

Maeglin felt uneasy. Rather than comb through history books, she took a simpler route.

“Lord Elrond and Glorfindel have known each other a long time, it seems,” Maeglin remarked to Thalanes, as she ground herbs to powder.

“Oh yes, ever since the year 961 in the Second Age. Glorfindel was sent by the Valar, you know,” –there was a reverent hush in the healer’s voice—“to serve and help Lord Elrond. Just as he once served Lord Elrond’s great-grandfather, many years before.”

That was the beauty of asking Thalanes any question; she kept going with little prompting. Because of Maeglin’s youth, and because it was assumed by most that she might be of one of the Nandorin tribes from some remote forest or mountain region, the healer was eager to inform her about everything. Rather than ask the obvious follow-up question, Maeglin simply waited. She already anticipated the answer.

“That was in Gondolin, of course. Glorfindel not only served King Turgon, he was the adopted son of the King’s daughter, Princess Idril. That makes him the adopted brother of Lord Elrond’s father.”

Maeglin was silent and kept grinding her herbs.

The brat’s son. Elrond was that brat’s son.

She should have guessed; that sense of the familiar that had haunted her when she first saw Elrond was now explained. She would never have thought of Eärendil when she looked at Elrond, but she could see the likeness to King Turgon: the dark-haired dignity and aura of authority, the calm strength. Even the shadow in the eyes from the loss of a beloved wife.

Should she leave? She looked out of the windows of the healing halls at the fair green valley, the cascading waterfalls, and the early summer blossoms in the meadows. Imladris. An unfamiliar emotion swept through her as she looked at this place. A sense of rest and rightness at being here that she had felt nowhere else. She did not want to leave. At least for now.

As long as Glorfindel kept out of her way.

* * *

 

The beds of herbs looked as though marauding orcs had rampaged through them.

“Most likely elflings enacting a battle with a balrog,” said Elrond with a sigh, surveying the devastation.

“No—apparently it was the Dagor Bragollach,” said Glorfindel, swinging the garden gate open and herding in Estel and twelve elflings aged between ten and twenty-five: all the children left in Imladris. There had been no new elven births in the past ten years, and an average birth rate of one elfling per year in Imladris in the years before that. The thirteen of them formed a close-knit circle of friends. Inspired by the tales in the great Hall of Fire, they would act out the great deeds of yore for days afterwards. On this morning, the Battle of the Sudden Flame had been waged through the precious beds of _athelas_ and _lissuin_ and other healing herb essentials.

“ _Díheno ammen_ , _Hîr Elrond_ ,” chorused Estel and the elflings penitently.

The ten-year-old, who barely reached Glorfindel’s knee, clung on to the golden lord’s leg and refused to let go. “Come on, _pen dithen_ , time to clean up this mess you made,” said Glorfindel, gently detaching the tot.  Soon all the children were at work under the supervision of Maeglin, who was a stern taskmaster.

“We need a taller fence and a lock on the garden gate. We’ve been saying that for the last few centuries. It’s time to do it,” said Glorfindel to Elrond.

“It is a sad thing, but the days of elflings in the valley are numbered. Within twenty years, there will be need for neither fence nor lock. I would rather teach them to do right than shut them out.”

Thalanes frowned. “We don’t have the seeds for some of these herbs. And some of them grow best from cuttings. It is time to go out of the valley to gather.”

“Wait a few days. Patrols report some orc and warg activity outside the borders,” said Glorfindel.

“We may miss the season for planting. And our stocks for some of these are running lower than they should.”

“All right. You will go with a few warriors,” said Elrond. “And bring Lómiel with you.”

Glorfindel decided that he would accompany them himself, together with two of the guard, Emlindir and Beril. As much of the terrain would be too mountainous or the growth would be too dense for horses, they went on foot. He guarded the rear in his white tunic and grey leggings, his two great swords strapped to his back, and as they hiked, besides scanning the area for danger he was looking at Maeglin’s back, the shining waterfall of black hair, and occasional glimpses of her profile.

The past two months had been torture.

In the first few days, Glorfindel had attempted to watch Maeglin closely. The strain on him had been tremendous, because of the effect she always had on him. His heart would race, he would go weak with longing and hot with desire, and often he would begin to blush, beginning with the tips of his ears. Dismayed as he had been when she began to work at the healing halls, at least he knew where she would be for much of each day. He told himself he would focus on guarding Idril’s four descendants, and keep away from her.

Yet he found himself drawn to the halls. He would bring in snacks for the healers from the kitchens. He would help prepare herbal mixes and chat with everyone except her. Though he kept his distance, just knowing she was in the same room gave him both comfort and torture. For the first two weeks, he watched her like a hawk during mealtimes as he still feared poison, especially once she had full access to a whole range of herbs and knowledge of how to use them.

The ability to rationalize and believe what one wants to believe is tremendous, however. Elven memory does not fade, but interpretation of memory can alter.

After three days of following her down corridors and gazing adoringly at her over the dining table, he began to doubt. At times she would smile. On a few occasions a joke from Elrohir even caused her to laugh (causing him to feel a darkly murderous impulse towards the younger _peredhel_ twin that shocked himself). How could this possibly be the dour traitor, who had worn a perpetual frown or a scowl for much of his time in Gondolin? How could this delicate and lovely maid be Maeglin Lómion? As for the name, the name must be a coincidence. And perhaps, in some remote Nandorin or Avarin tribes cut off from the Eldar since Cuiviénen, such mysterious, long black eyes were commonplace, and hardly unique to a certain murderous smith and his son.

Then there was the nightmare. . .Glorfindel had lain awake each night for the first week, wondering if it would recur. But there had been no more screams in the night, and each morning, her impassive face told him nothing. And Glorfindel began to convince himself, over time, that the dream must have been his own fantasy: his own dark memories of Gondolin’s fall combined with his memories of the War of Wrath, and the tales of horror related to him in the gardens of Estë by some of the thralls released from the pits.

Watching Lómiel quietly grinding medicines and bandaging patients, he told himself, _I must have been insane. This is not the prince of Gondolin, this is just a maid._

And he began to hope and dream. He would be patient. His maiden would come of age. Then he would court her, and make her his. The mystery of her origins still haunted him. He had ridden out alone into the dark southern forests of the Rhudaur, hoping to uncover some clue. But there had been no trace of her in the woods beyond the area where the warg had attacked her. Attacked by a band of ten orcs, he had returned with nothing to show for his expedition but a shoulder wound.

* * *

Their foraging for herbs went well. Following a map that detailed where each type grew, they managed to collect seeds, uproot several good specimens, and get cuttings of others. Their bags were quite full as they turned back home.

“We should be home before dusk,” said Glorfindel. Then his senses warned him of danger. A well-known scent on the wind, a familiar prickling at the nape of his neck. “ _Yrch!_ Hurry, run! _Now!”_

The ambush was quick and vicious.

The orcs came down upon them from both sides, about twenty of them. “Keep close to me!” Glorfindel commanded Maeglin, while Emlindir and Beril protected Thalanes. Pushing Maeglin behind him, Glorfindel slashed through an orc to his right, cleaving it open from throat to groin. _One down_.

The most recent breed of orc to enter this region was far more aggressive and fearless, and his light seemed to act like a magnet to them _. Two down. Three_. So now he found himself up against a horde of them. Having to keep Maeglin close to him was a handicap, for he could not use one of his greatest advantages, his nimble swiftness of movement, to evade and attack his foes. _Five._

He was ringed by orcs and Maeglin had disappeared from his side. Sudden fear seized him. “Lómiel!” he shouted as he slashed at the orcs about him, scanning the surroundings desperately for her. _Eight._

He spun round to slash at two orcs leaping upon him from behind. As he thrust through the first, to his surprise the other began to crumple even before his blade struck it.

The orc’s body toppled to the ground, and Maeglin stood behind, a golden battle fire flickering in her black eyes. In her two hands she wielded an orcish sword. Her eyes were already searching for the next orc, feet planted apart, knees slightly bent, blade raised and ready.

Two ages ago, in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, the Houses of the Golden Flower and the Mole had been pushed together as the battle raged. As he fought, Glorfindel had seen the black blade Anguirel go flying, and the Lord of the Mole, weaponless, was using all his agility and speed to dodge the blades of the orcs attacking him, slashing at them with his dirk whilst he tried futilely to retrieve his sword. But the orcs were only pushing him further away from where it lay.

_“Lómion! Catch!”_

Glorfindel often fought with two swords, one in each hand. In that split-second, Lómion turned, their eyes met, and Glorfindel flung the blade in his right hand to him, which Lómion skillfully caught by the hilt, just in time to parry a blow by an orcish axe that would have severed his princely neck.

Glorfindel eyes met the black ones of his maiden. “ _Catch!”_ He threw one of his swords to her. Casting away the orcish blade in disgust, she caught his sword with ease. They fought side by side, back to back, and what she lacked of the grace and power of his strokes, she made up for with sheer ferocity.

When the last orc had fallen, they stood side by side, blood-spattered, and exchanged looks, seeing the battle light die down in each other’s eyes, hers golden, his white.

His heart was breaking from despair.

“How many did you get?” she asked him.

“Twelve,” he said. “You?”

“Four,” she replied, and scowled. She wiped his blade clean on the grass, and held the hilt of the sword to him. “My thanks.”

As she had done over six thousand years ago.

He took it and sheathed it.

Emlindir, Beril and Thalanes were staring at her.

“Let’s go,” said Glorfindel, ignoring their looks.

Maeglin took a step forward, and collapsed to the ground.

Adrenalin and the reflexes of almost a century of vigorous military training in a previous life had seen her through the battle, but now every muscle in her body, over-fatigued, had seized into spasm. She tried to get to her feet, but her body refused to obey her. And she was trembling from head to foot. She gritted her teeth, hating to be weak. Especially before him.

Glorfindel lifted her into his arms and began the walk back to Imladris.

“Put me down,” she muttered weakly, her head against his shoulder.

“Why? So you can crawl back?”

“I hate not seeing where I’m going.”

“I can carry you like this, or you can ride on my back. Choose.”

So they went back with him feeling her warm body against his back, her legs around his hips, her breath against his left ear and her arms wrapped around his neck.

Torn between bliss and torment, Glorfindel thought that he would die.

* * *

Elrond pursed his lips as he treated Maeglin. A wrenched shoulder. Several pulled muscles. Sore and swollen wrists, the right one sprained. Masses of blisters on her hands. She had taken cuts on her arms, broken two fingers, and her knuckles were raw. Her forehead and cheek had caught the edge of a blade, and a tear slid down her stoic, expressionless face as Elrond stitched the gashes.

Glorfindel had vanished, waving off all who wanted to dress his cuts.

“I hear you were very brave, and fought very well today,” Elrond said. “Can you remember anything of who taught you?”

 _Glorfindel did_ , she thought, and kept silent.

“Are any memories stirring?” Elrond asked, for traumatic events such as these often served as a catalyst for remembering the past.

Maeglin knew this as well, and decided it might be useful to start recollecting a few things. “I remember some lessons. My father.”

“Aha,” said Elrond, heartened by this breakthrough. “And do you see your home? Have you any idea where your parents and family might be?”

Maeglin was silent for a long while. “I saw my parents. They are dead. They were killed.”

Elrond saw truth in her steady gaze. “I am sorry, child.”

“Wherever my home might be, I do not know and I do not care. I have no one there. I wish to stay here.”

“And you are most welcome to. Would you like to train with the guard?” She would probably be a better warrior than a healer, Elrond thought.

She made a wry face. _With Glorfindel?_

“I shall think about it,” she replied.

* * *

Going straight from the healing halls to the stables, Glorfindel jumped onto Asfaloth and rode as fast and as hard as he could away from the house. Then dismounting, he climbed the slopes of the encircling hills like one pursued by wargs, ascended past the cascading waters of the falls, and in the middle of the wilderness, roared out in misery to the cruel heavens: “ _Why, Eru!? Why!?”_

He loved Maeglin Lómion. Utterly. Desperately.

And there was no longer any shadow of doubt in his heart that it was Maeglin Lómion whom he had fought side by side with today, and carried on his back ten miles to the healing halls. He could still feel her weight on his back, her warmth, her arms and legs wrapped around him. He could still see her fierce face as she had stood with the orcish blade in her hands. The face and blazing eyes of the Lord of the Mole.

Glorfindel sat on the rocks of the mountainside, buried his head in his hands, and wept.

* * *

It was autumn. Glorfindel strode grimly towards the healing halls. He was missing a few of his newest cadets, and he knew where to find them. They were below the age of majority, new to the discipline of his training, and as frisky and silly as puppies.

As he opened the door to the healing halls, he could hear voices coming from one of the treatment rooms.

“Come with us to gather apples, our sweet!”

“Or let us take a walk into the hills!”

“The autumn festival is next week! Will you dance with us?”

“Oh yes, my blossom—save one dance for me!” At which jeers and the sounds of a scuffle broke out among the cadets.

Glorfindel moved until he could see into the open door.

Maeglin was stitching a gash on the leg of a young cadet with green eyes and brown hair, and four of his friends were gathered around her.

Glorfindel’s blue eyes took on an angry glint. But he stayed where he was, and waited.

 “You are standing in my light, young worthies,” Maeglin said in a carefully even voice as she concentrated on her stitches. And truly, the silly pups were blocking much of the light from the window.

“Oh, fair flower, you know not how truly you speak!” said one with an attempt at a meaningful gaze.

“We are indeed _standing in your light--_!” chimed in one with beautiful silver eyes.

“Such light as comes from eyes so lovely and sweet.”

Glorfindel smiled as he saw a black eyebrow lift and saw a dangerous glint come into the eyes he knew so well. Maeglin was many things. Sweet was not one. He waited for it. One. Two. Three--

“One look from your eyes could slay us, my sweet.”

“But be kind, fair maid! Say you will dance!”

 “I never dance,” she said curtly.

Anyone less young and silly would have taken warning from the icy scorn of her voice.

“Ah, but one of such lissom grace was surely made for dancing!”

“As one so fair was surely made for love.”

The suturing needle, held poised in the air, looked as though it wanted to stab someone in the neck. The black eyes had narrowed and golden fire flickered.

Finally. It had taken a lot longer than Glorfindel thought. The prince of Gondolin was getting soft.

“Love,” sneered Maeglin in a voice dripping with contempt. “What do you fools know of love? You are babies playing with pretty words. _You know_ _nothing!!”_

Glorfindel cringed in dismay. He had expected the Lord of the Mole to send them running out of the room with an eruption of volcanic anger. He was startled by the bitterness, by the mix of mockery and pain in the black eyes. The faces of the young cadets had gone blank with bewilderment.

“ _THERE YOU ARE, YOU LAZY, LUMPISH MISCREANTS!”_ he bawled from the corridor outside, with an eye on that needle in her hand. The black eyes turned and pierced him sharply, but the needle in her hand kept steady. With guilty starts, four cadets went pale.

“Get o _ut of there!!”_ thundered Glorfindel. _“The lot of you!!_ _NOW!!!_ ”

The cadets spilled out of the treatment room to stand abjectly before Glorfindel.

 “Arasdil _fell_ —“

“He hurt his _leg_ —“

“We _had_ to help him here—he couldn’t walk!”

“We were _just_ going back— _honest_!“

“Back to training in _ten seconds_ or I’ll have you cleaning the weapons room for the next month!”

The cadets sped away on light, swift feet down the corridor.

The brown haired cadet with green eyes was still in the room with Maeglin.

“Sir—” he said.

Glorfindel came in, had a look at the gash, and said, “Be more careful next time. No more horsing around.”

His eyes met Maeglin’s briefly. The scars on her face from the skirmish in summer had faded to fine lines. His heart ached with tenderness, he wanted to trace them with his finger, to kiss them.

The shadow in her eyes had vanished, but the memory of her words, mocking and bitter, haunted the warrior. After millennia with Mandos, and in this new form, was it possible that the traitor of Gondolin still longed for. . . still loved. . .? The thought that what he now felt for Maeglin, Maeglin might still cherish for the princess of Gondolin, for his own _Ammë_ , made him feel sick to the stomach.

“I am sorry to have disturbed your work, maiden,” he said quietly.

He saw the hint of a smile before she bowed her head again over her suturing. She had not been as cold to him since that day they had fought together.

He could not unsee the face of the prince of Gondolin when he looked at her now. And still he loved and longed. He did not trust himself alone with her. Had the cadet not been there in the room, he would not have dared enter. Or he might have given in to temptation and done what he dreamed nightly. Pulled the prince of Gondolin down onto the couch where the cadet now lay.

Abruptly, he turned and left.

* * *

The dark-haired mortal boy sat next to Maeglin as they both ground dried herbs with mortar and pestle.

Estel was the first mortal Maeglin had ever known whom she liked. When he came by to learn about medicines and healing lore, the descendant of Elros Half-elven would quietly pull out from his pocket snacks that he had pilfered from the kitchen, and share them with her. He had the rare gift of being able to talk to her while she worked without annoying her—rare in anyone, let alone a mortal boy of eleven. He had a charisma and gravitas far beyond his years. She wondered what his ancestor Eärendil would have been like at eleven. She remembered the future star only as a seven-year-old – a beautiful but detestable blond brat who had kicked and punched Maeglin as the prince of Gondolin tried to kill him.

Glorfindel hovered nearby. Having completed an inventory of the medications with the healers, he had run out of things to occupy himself here. Part of him felt that he should not leave Estel alone with Maeglin, but they looked as though they were getting along famously. The prince of Gondolin getting chummy with a mortal. Glorfindel would never have thought he would ever see the day.

As his golden-haired swordfighting tutor walked out of the healing halls, Estel looked from the tall warrior to Maeglin with sage eyes and pronounced, “He likes you”.

“He would be one of the rare few then.”

A glimmer of amusement crossed the boy’s face. “You know very well what I mean. I saw his ears turn a little red when he looked at you just now. He has never done that for _anyone_ else. Maybe he is in love with you.”

“Oh? And what would _you_ know of love, young master?”

Giving her his most wise and enigmatic look, the boy had declined to reply and looked away with an expression both dreamy and pensive.

Elrond’s daughter Arwen had arrived a week ago at Imladris to celebrate the autumn festival.

* * *

Late autumn.

It was one of those hunting expeditions that had gone quite wrong. The Imladris hunters had become game themselves as an orc ambush landed two of the party in the healing halls, the more gravely injured of whom was Glorfindel, who had taken the brunt of the vicious attack in his effort to defend the others, and who had again not been wearing any armour.

“You are fortunate indeed to still have most of your guts,” said the Lord of Imladris grimly as he finished the final sutures on his Commander’s abdomen. “How are you feeling now?”

“Oh absolutely marvellous Elrond,” said the golden-haired warrior to the ceiling as he lay on the bed. “Just marvellous. You know, you are the most wonderful friend in the whole world. The most wonderful friend. I love you so much.”

Elrond frowned. How much painkiller had his assistants given the balrog slayer?

“You’re my best friend ever. I love you so much, Elrond. You should always do your hair that way.”

Elrond left the room before the balrog slayer could tell him again how much he loved him. “How much painkiller did you give Lord Glorfindel?” he demanded of Thalanes the healer.

“Just an extra dram, lord. It was going to be such a long operation. And he was in so much pain.”

Elrond sighed. “Well, it should do him no harm. Come, let’s tend to Emlindir now. I will need your assistance for this.” To the assistant healer nearby, who was preparing disinfectant for the wounds, Elrond said, “Lómiel, please dress Lord Glorfindel’s wounds.”

As Maeglin set her bandages and ointments by the bed, Glorfindel said, “There you are, my lovely. I missed you so much. You look so beautiful.” And she froze as he cheerfully told her in some detail what he would love to do to her that moment if he could only move.

She replied that she had long, sharp instruments that could do the same to him if he said that again.

After she had slathered disinfectant ointment on his wounds, and was sliding the bandages under his abdominal region and wrapping them around him—a little more roughly than she should have—he told her how wonderful it felt and what would feel even better if she just moved her hands a little lower. 

She told him what he would lose if her hands moved a little lower.

As she trimmed off the ends of the bandages, he told her how beautiful her lips were and where he thought they should go and what he thought they could do.

At which the Lord of the Mole clouted the Lord of the Golden Flower unconscious with a hard blow of her fist to his head, and swept out of the room with burning cheeks.

Just when she had been beginning to think better of him. It confirmed every suspicion of his morals she had ever had in Gondolin, and cemented her low opinion of him. She _loathed_ him.

And Glorfindel, waking ten hours later, had not the slightest memory of anything that had happened.

* * *

Lómiel refused to enter into Glorfindel’s room any more.

_I will kill him if I do._

Elrond looked at her, shocked by her insubordination. “As healers, we serve all!” he reprimanded her sternly. “What did Lord Glorfindel do?”

“He did not do anything, my lord,” she said with a stony face.

Elrond remembered the painkiller. “Was it anything he said?”

She did not look at him but her eyes flickered gold and she blushed.

 _Impossible_ , thought Elrond. _I’ve known him five thousand years and he would never—_

There was no point forcing her to do anything.

“Lord Elrond, you have a new assistant now.” An _elleth_ named Neldanna had just joined them. “I think we would all agree I am not suited to this work. I ask to be discharged from my duties in the healing halls.”

Elrond nodded sadly. “I’m afraid I do agree. Thank you for all your labours here. Do you know what you would like to do now?”

“I have something in mind, lord.”

And she dipped him a curtsey and left.

 

***********************************************************************************************************

Glossary

Díheno ammen (S) – forgive us (lower status to higher status)

Pen dithen (S) – little one

Yrch (S) - orcs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel loopy on painkillers inspired by my own post-op anaesthesia high, but it is mostly a rip-off of EbonyKitty552's Silmarillion Prompt #104 with Beleg and Orodreth.
> 
> One of my inconsistencies in this story is the orcs. Glorfindel is powerful and maia-like enough for the Nazgul to flee from him. So orcs would naturally flee from him as well, but I, uh, wanted to give the poor hero more challenge as a warrior... and I sadistically enjoy getting my heroes wounded... so there you go. (1) I came up with orcs brainless enough not to be scared of him but to attack him. (2) And whereas Tolkien's idea of a badass warrior is that they are so awesome they don't get even a nick in battle, my Glorfindel gets a lot of nifty scars.


	11. The Call of Craft

Glorfindel had been surprised and dismayed to discover that Maeglin had left the healing halls. Except nobody told him why.

When Maeglin had emerged red-faced and furious from the lord’s room and asked if Lord Glorfindel commonly made inappropriate remarks, the other healers had looked at her in open-mouthed shock.

“Inappropriate remarks? What sort of inappropriate remarks?”

At which she had tightened her lips and declined to say.

“There must be a misunderstanding, Lómiel. Lord Glorfindel is ever the perfect gentleman,” said Thalanes.

“Unfortunately,” sighed a brown-haired assistant named Candes who was always the first to volunteer when the balrog slayer needed a sponge bath.

At which Maeglin opened and closed her mouth, and then said that yes, she must have misunderstood.

And then refused to ever go into the room again.

Now, three days after she had left, the healers were still whispering about it at the halls out of earshot of Glorfindel.

 

Next to the stables lies a low building connected to the main house by a covered walkway. Next to it, a wide, lively stream flows. Before it lies an apple orchard, beyond which the ground gently slopes away to a meadow which in summer is covered with cornflowers, buttercups, and poppies. It was late autumn now, and the meadow was golden and brown in the morning sun. Late apples glowed red in the yellowing trees. A light frost was melting in the morning sun.

Maeglin walked slowly beneath the apple trees, listening to the familiar sound of hammer on metal which sung to her soul and stirred her heart.

She had been coming to the orchard for the past three days, ostensibly to pick apples which she later brought to the Imladris kitchens, but in reality to examine the building which now lay before her. The Imladris smithy.

Three millennia ago, in the Second Age, there had been several large structures adjacent to this one, and many skilled elven smiths had undertaken the great work of forging weapons and armour for the Last Alliance. All the valley had been crowded with tents and barracks as the vast hosts of elves and men gathered in and around Imladris before marching south to confront Sauron at Barad-dûr.

Only this one building remained. It sufficed to serve the small population of eight hundred Imladhrim. The smiths of old had all sailed west, and a single smith, silver haired and pleasant-faced, was beating a kitchen cleaver on an anvil, his tools arrayed on the walls beside him.

A single furnace at the back with double bellows. Two anvil blocks.

It was so sad.

Maeglin remembered with regret the large complex of forges and furnaces and workshops at the House of the Mole in Gondolin. The Lord of the Mole had had fifty of the finest smiths working under him, and at least three assistants serving him at any one time. In his own personal forge he had fashioned what he loved best: weapons and armour for the King and the Lords of Gondolin. Ecthelion the Fair, arrayed in the armour of blue steel Maeglin had crafted, had been a creature of dread beauty to strike fear into the heart of any of Morgoth’s minions. The magnificent sword the prince had given to Glorfindel for the golden-haired lord’s four hundred and fiftieth begetting day had quickly become the latter’s favourite. It had been one of the two he had wielded in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears. Maeglin had a feeling that it had been the very sword the hero had used to hew off the balrog’s arm, then plunged into the balrog’s shoulder before the monster had grasped him by his golden hair and dragged him into the abyss. Not that Maeglin ever intended to ask him.

It had not mattered that the prince had hated the Lord of the Golden Flower. Maeglin had taken a ferocious pride in the excellence of his craft, and nothing substandard would ever have left his forge. And oddly, precisely because he disliked Glorfindel so much, he had taken especial care that the sword he gifted was well-crafted. He had not quite understood why himself.

But armour and weapons paled beside Maeglin’s greatest achievement: the glory and splendour of the seventh gate of Gondolin, the Gates of Steel. He had worked on it ceaselessly for eight months, scarcely stopping to eat or rest. And when he had finished it and gazed on it in triumph, he had known that it was the most magnificent of all the gates of Gondolin, and that this thing of beauty and strength he had created would be able to last ten thousand years. And it would have, if not for…

Maeglin quickly broke off the thought.

And now, to come, from all that glory and splendour, to this.

One furnace, two anvil blocks. And kitchen cleavers. And pots and pans.

Oh yes, there was some weaponry and armour. Through the window of a long workroom to the side of the forge itself she could see, laid out on some tables, armour, swords, chain mail, and hunting knives all needing to be repaired. Very serviceable and common looking elven armour and weapons. No finesse. No style. Her lip had curled in scorn the first time she had set eyes on the armour of the Commander of Imladris. That he could go from wearing what she had crafted in days of yore to _this_.

His swords from Valinor, however, were extraordinary. Maeglin had felt almost reluctant to hand back to him the blade that he had lent her, wanting to examine it more closely.

Maeglin’s craft in Gondolin had been not just a source of pride. It had been the prince of Gondolin’s means of survival. He had laboured for days on end, sometimes, in order to finish a piece. He was the despair of his chefs, who would stand at the doorway of the forge – he forbade them to enter – begging him to but taste a morsel of their most delectable dishes. Drowning himself in his work had allowed him, if only briefly, to escape from wild and despairing thoughts of golden hair, grey eyes, white skin and soft lips.

Lómiel the maiden was free at last from the curse of that hopeless love, but she could not deny that this craft had always been in her blood. It had been part of Maeglin of Nan Elmoth long before he became Lómion of Gondolin. She had tried in this second life to run from it, to suppress it. Now she wanted to come home.

There were several reasons why she had stayed away.

It was not merely her dismay at the size of the smithy, nor that the work could not satisfy.

Partly, it was that if you were a reviled traitor disguised as an elfmaid and wanted to be inconspicuous, being one healing assistant among four females was far more sensible than being a young maiden at a forge.

And how could she work under another? She who had commanded fifty? The silver-haired smith was skilled and competent, she could see. But she had been more than skilled and competent. She had been the son of the greatest elven smith in Beleriand and had been a great smith herself. To take orders like a lackey would rankle. And she knew: she would want to do things her own way.

With these thoughts she had tussled for the past few days since she left the healing halls.

This morning she had risen and looked at herself long in the mirror.

The slender maid who looked back at her was no longer Lómion, great smith of Gondolin. She saw a youngling not yet of age, with arms too weak to ever fashion a sword again. Yet the hunger to once more see metal come to life under her hands was too great. . .

She would swallow her pride.

She would become an apprentice, and do what crumbs of work were thrown to her.

And bite her tongue and do things her master’s way.

If the smith would have her, that is…

 

The Imladris smith, Camaen, looked up from the sword he was tempering and saw that the black-haired maiden who had been hovering around the forge for the past three days was now walking towards him.

“Fine day,” said Camaen cheerfully, by way of greeting.

“Very fine,” she replied. By now, she had managed to lose much of her Nan Elmoth accent.

“I’ve seen you around. You take an interest in smithing, then?”

“Yes, my father was a smith.” She had decided it was time to let more memories of her past surface.

“Ah.”

“He taught me a few things. Could you use a pair of hands around here?”

He looked at her dubiously. “That I could, but smithing’s hard on a lass with hands as white and dainty as yours.”

The blade hissed and a cloud of steam curled skyward as Camaen plunged the hot metal into cold water.

“I care naught about keeping my hands pretty. Look. They have some callouses already.” The blisters she had received in the orc attack had left slightly toughened skin as they healed.

He shook his head and said gently, “You’re not strong enough for this, little lass. I’ll not have you getting hurt here.”

The sound of metal on stone, as he began to grind the blade.

Maeglin’s throat was tight with disappointment and frustration. She wanted this more than anything. But before she could continue her argument, she became aware of someone behind her. She stiffened, knowing somehow who it was even before she turned her head.

“Lord Glorfindel,” she said icily.

“Maiden Lómiel, Smith Camaen.” He bowed to them slightly, as he walked slowly towards them.

His golden hair was a bright halo in the morning sunlight. Over his leggings, he had a white tunic thrown on, unbelted, and as he stood backlit by the sun, one could see beneath the fabric that his abdomen was still swathed in bandages. He should still have been bed-bound in the healing halls, but nobody had ever been able to keep Glorfindel in bed once he was able to get out of it. The only way would have been to sedate him or tie him down. Behind his back, she could see he was holding a bunch of carrots; he must have been on his way to visit Asfaloth in the stables. The gut injury would mean he had been on a fast for a while, and he looked luminous and ethereal in the morning light. Almost fragile.

Glorfindel had come out of the healing halls only to see Asfaloth. But as soon as he had seen Maeglin at the forge with Camaen, he had understood her intent, and made his way over.

“The lass has asked for work in the smithy, Lord Glorfindel,” said Camaen. “It is not work for a maiden as dainty as she.”

The maiden looked for a moment as though she would explode at being described as dainty. Then she said, quickly, “Nerdanel, daughter of Mahtan, is a smith.”

“Very true. And she is famed for some excellent metalwork, which I have had the chance to admire,” Glorfindel said, deciding not to mention that Nerdanel was also built as strongly as Turgon’s tower.

“It is hot and hard work,” said Camaen.

“I fear neither fire nor hard work.”

“I am sure you do not,” said Glorfindel. “Well, you lack the muscles to lift Camaen’s hammer, but there is a variety of other work to be done. Camaen, she could do other crafts and lighter metalwork for you. It has been lonely out here since your master Erchaildir went west, has it not? And too much work for one smith. Why not take her on trial as an assistant for a few days?”

The black eyes widened slightly at finding an ally in the Lord of the Golden Flower.

“I will not get in the way and be a nuisance,” she said quickly. “I know my way around a forge.”

 _You definitely do_ , thought Glorfindel, smiling at the sight of the prince of Gondolin humbling himself.

Camaen nodded. “Come by tomorrow at eight. I’ll find you something to do.”

The smile of relief on her face was radiant. “ _Le hannon.”_

Then she turned. “ _Le athae,_ Lord Glorfindel.”  And though her tone was cool, he saw gratitude in her eyes.

“ _Glassen._ ” He bowed, gave her a boyish smile, and slowly walked away to the stables with his handful of carrots, the tips of his ears a little red.

 

Three days later, Glorfindel had discharged himself from the healing halls and the first thing he did was to head to the smithy to check if Camaen was still alive.

The smith certainly was. From under the apple trees, Glorfindel saw Camaen cheerfully whistling as he hammered out some dents in a cooking pot. Through the window of the adjourning workroom, framed by the almost-bare ivy which grew around it, he saw his Maeglin. She had exchanged her dresses for boy’s apparel: a red and black woollen tunic over grey leggings and black boots, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, and a thick, shapeless apron over all. Even so, her face and build were too feminine for her to be mistaken for an elf lad. Her long hair was clipped at the nape of her neck and fell in a tail down her back. The Lord of the Mole had always hated the fuss of braiding his hair, Glorfindel thought with a smile. He saw that she had cut off some of the length of her hair so it now fell only to her waist, the same length as his own. Having gathered her tools, she sat down at a table and started mending the links in a chain mail shirt, her face stern as she concentrated on her work.

He gazed at her dreamily for a while. She looked absolutely enchanting.

 _“You are a besotted fool_ ,” a voice in his mind reprimanded him. “ _What have you done? You might as well have given the traitor of Gondolin the keys to the Imladris armoury and asked him to help himself.”_

“It has been half a year, and all has been well. I cannot believe any longer that she is here with ill intent,” he argued back.

_“Maeglin is clever. He would wait. Bide his time. Win the trust of all. Lull you into complacency, and then strike when least expected. As in Gondolin.”_

“That is ridiculous. Angband is gone, as is Morgoth. Vilya keeps the orcs out of the valley. If she sought to murder Eärendil’s descendants in their beds or poison them, why has she not done so earlier? But if there is still any shadow of doubt, still the possibility of danger, then there is only one thing to be done,” replied Glorfindel. “I shall need to keep a close eye on her.”

Needing some reason to go into the forge, he went to the stables to get Asfaloth. He was certain the front right shoe needed checking.

 

If Camaen had been apprehensive about taking in the maiden, his fears had quickly been put to rest. She needed merely a few words of instruction, would give a silent nod, then get the work done with no fuss. She astonished him with skills and knowledge beyond her years – but just how much he did not know, because she was extremely careful not to give too much away.

Glorfindel suddenly always had some reason to drop by. Once all of Asfaloth’s shoes had been dutifully checked, he got the metal links in the straps of Asfaloth’s leather panniers repaired as they seemed to be “a little loose”. After that, by dint of digging through the sizable collection of weapons and armour in his bedchamber, he was able to find various pieces of armour, chain mail, daggers, arrows, shields, swords, helmets, and vambraces, which all needed some trivial form of attention even though some of them had not been used since the Last Alliance in the Second Age. And he was careful to bring them in to the forge one by one.

He kept out of her workroom space, and stayed where the forge was, chatting with Camaen. This still allowed him to observe his maiden quite closely through the door or windows of the workroom.

He watched her as her sharp eyes watched Camaen work, saw more than once a critical flash in the black eyes, saw her almost speak, then swallow the comment. He could read the thought in her mind: _I would have done it a far better way._ Once he heard her comment casually on a technique she now remembered her father using for something, but in so offhand a way that it could not be construed as criticism. And Camaen, who was an open-minded and curious soul, would think about it, and perhaps ask her for more details. Later, after experimenting, he might actually adopt the technique if it worked for him.

Glorfindel, who knew that Maeglin Lómion had never been known for patience or suffering fools gladly, saw with pleasure how well and wisely she held her tongue and curbed her pride. _That’s my Maeglin_ , he thought, and smiled _._

 

It was not long before Camaen trusted Maeglin enough to let her move beyond repair work. It began with the twins’ order for a necklace for their sister. Camaen, who did not have too many ideas for such fripperies, asked Maeglin if she would like to try sketching some designs and showing them to him.

The former Lord of the Mole was never one to back down from such a challenge. She frowned over the specifications for a while, and poured the bag of jewels the twins had supplied into her palm. In Gondolin, she herself would have preferred to delegate such work to Enerdhil, her own preference always being armour and weaponry. Gentle, dreamy Enerdhil, whose love for all things that grew had produced jewels and jewellery that captured the very life essence of dancing leaves and blossoming flowers, of sunlight and moonlight and starlight…

Maeglin, of all the Lords of Gondolin, had hardly even worn jewellery. The small diamonds of various hues winked mockingly at her in her palm.

With a sigh of frustration, Maeglin set down the diamonds, put on her cloak, and went out of the smithy. At the door, she tightened the laces on her boots—they were well-worn ones from the basement storerooms, but in her favourite colour black—and once she was out of sight of the smithy, she broke into a run.

Having an excuse to don male clothing had been one of the minor pleasures of becoming the smith’s apprentice, and Maeglin had revelled in the freedom of wearing breeches and tunics once again. There had been stares from many, and a few maidens had tittered when they first saw her heading towards the smithy in a dark blue tunic and black breeches she had found in the basement.

Erestor had raised eyebrows at her in a hallway, with several elves looking on. “We could have work dresses with shorter skirts tailored for you, Maiden Lómiel. This is rather unbecoming.”

 _“Elo!”_ Elrohir had exclaimed, as the twins rounded a corner and beheld Maeglin.

“Skirts would only be a work hazard, _H_ _îr_ Erestor,” Maeglin had murmured demurely, after quickly suppressing an arrogant glare by lowering her eyes and fixing them on the hem of Erestor’s robe. “What if I catch fire?”

“Indeed, Erestor, you would not desire _that_ to be on your head, would you?” Elrohir had said indignantly.

“The _ellith_ in the guard wear similar garb with their armour, Erestor,” had added Elladan, looking her over from head to foot. “The same reasoning applies. Safety, ease of movement.”

“Not all enjoy sweeping around in skirts as you do, Erestor,” Elrohir had grinned. For the twins, like Glorfindel, could only be constrained to wear their floor-length robes for dinner and for feasts.

No one else had questioned Maeglin’s choice of work attire after the twins’ approval had been given.

Now, as she raced away from the house and the smithy, she was still aware of how different the mechanics of running as an _elleth_ felt. Broader pelvis, slighter shoulders. Slower. Less power. _Damn. I miss being me._

And now, there was no Enerdhil the Lord of the Mole could assign this work to.

Enerdhil had spent long hours dreamily walking in the gardens, lying among flowers, staring at stars and clouds, trees and leaves lit with sunlight, and that had inspired masterpieces like the Elessar…

So Maeglin took a deep breath of chilly air, and looked with new eyes at swallows departing south for warmer climes, at grey clouds chased by cold winds across the skies, and frost sparkling on the last leaves that shivered on the trees.

By the time she returned to the smithy in the evening, Camaen had already gone home to his cottage across the river.  She made a few swift sketches, then worked like one possessed all through the night and the next day and the next night.

On the second night, Elrond frowned when he heard that Maeglin was still holed up in the smithy. He directed his sons to take food to her and convince her to return to the house to rest. “She is a growing child,” said the Lord of Imladris and father of three. “She needs her sustenance.”

Glorfindel watched anxiously from a distance as Elladan and Elrohir went to the smithy with the plate of food, not wanting to look as though he cared too much. It looked, he thought, all too familiar. He hoped Maeglin would not throw anything at them as the Lord of the Mole had oft done in Gondolin when disturbed at work.

The food was rejected, but nothing was thrown, and no profanities were uttered. “She’s barricaded herself in,” said Elladan, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Did she say anything?” asked Glorfindel, trying not to sound overly concerned as the three of them walked back to the house, picking at the food on the plate as they went.

 _“‘Leave me alone. I’m working,’”_ said Elrohir glumly, eating a spoonful of thyme-flavoured cauliflower purée.

That was courteous enough for the Mole, thought Glorfindel, absently chewing on a piece of broccoli without tasting it.

“Have the quail stuffed with mushrooms, Glorfindel. It really is very good,” said Elrohir.

 

The necklace Maeglin eventually laid in Elladan’s hands was a graceful filigree of silver leaves that seemed to be dancing in a breeze upon delicate silver branches, with a frosting of diamonds sparkling on them like starfire. The twins gazed at her in awe. The word quickly spread, and other orders soon began to come in.

The trees grew bare, and the snows of winter came in soft white flurries and covered the valley. By late spring, from working on jewellery, she expanded her projects to small skillets and cookware, producing pieces of such elegant beauty and exceptional functionality that the chefs raved about them. Glorfindel thought it rather ironic, given his knowledge that Maeglin cooked about as well as her mother—badly. Small game cooked tough as leather and half-charred, carelessly seasoned via Aredhel flinging a pinch of salt at it as she snatched the spit from the flames. After the one time the white princess had ruined dinner as they escorted her to Himlad, Ecthelion and Egalmoth had taken over cooking their meals.

_“You are even worse,” Ecthelion had muttered to Glorfindel, as he rubbed herbs on a plucked pheasant, and Aredhel and Egalmoth rubbed down the horses. “You have not ever tried to cook a thing. Not even an egg!”_

_“And you should be thankful I have not. I have other ways of being useful,” Glorfindel had serenely replied then, lifting his eyes from the other pheasant he was gutting to gaze at the shadowy lands of Nan Dungortheb that crouched low like a monstrous beast in the distance…_

In Maeglin’s case, Glorfindel suspected that on the one hunting trip the prince had helped with the cooking, he had deliberately rendered the rabbits so unpalatable that no one would ever ask him to do it again.

Glorfindel no longer had any fears for the safety of the line of Eärendil, not even when, by early autumn, Maeglin began to work on small daggers and hunting knives. It was clear that the only thing that mattered to her was her craft. She would quickly and efficiently get all repair jobs done as soon as they came in so that she could dedicate the rest of her time to the work of creation. It so engrossed her that she returned to the house only once every few days to dine or sleep for strength.

If Maeglin’s craft had been, for the prince of Gondolin, a source of pride, a means to find respite from an obsessive love, for the maid of Imladris it became an end in itself. All ambition for a crown or power was gone now. All desire for love was dead. From the ashes of these twin driving forces rose the fiery flames of creative passion in her heart. Her craft became her reason for being.

Glorfindel, who visited the smithy almost daily, would stand outside the workroom talking to Camaen, glancing at her every now and again through the open door. She emerged into the forge area now and again, and he would watch her smelt metals and cast them in moulds or deftly shape them. He would admire how much stronger her body was growing, and when she passed by him, he noted that she was growing a little taller.

She largely ignored Glorfindel, focused as she was on the work. By midsummer, she was growing careless about hiding her knowledge or her skills, and there were times when Camaen would watch her with wide-eyed amazement.

“By the beard of Aulë, how does she know how to do all that at her age?” he would breathe to Glorfindel.

And Glorfindel, trying not to look nervous, would shrug casually. “It would appear there is a lot we do not know about some of these Avarin tribes.”

For most of the time, it seemed to Glorfindel that he did not even exist for her. When autumn came around again, however, she surprised him on his begetting day by giving him a set of five throwing knives she had made. It was her way of thanking him for getting her the apprenticeship, he knew. He fingered the points and handled them. They were beautifully weighted, and exquisitely finished. “They’re excellent,” he said, elated and hopeful. And received a smile in return, before she disappeared back into the workroom.

The day after, things went south. He had been leaning on the wall talking to Camaen when he noticed Maeglin taking a smelting urn out of the furnace and pouring molten cast iron into a mould she had made for a new piece of cookware. The urn was larger than the ones she normally used, and too heavy for her despite the fact that she had grown so much stronger. Her wrists were shaking and unsteady.

He did what was most natural. He crossed over, took the urn holder from her hand, and effortlessly poured the iron for her.

When he finished, he looked up to see her eyes angrily flickering with fire, glaring daggers at him. The expression on her face was pained.  

“ _Le hannon_ , _H_ _îr_ Glorfindel,” she said in a tight voice. And retreating into the workroom, she slammed the door shut with a bang.

What had he done wrong?

He sighed. One step forward, one step back.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Elo! [S] – Wow!


	12. Snow

Winter had come to Imladris again. The valley lay under a pristine layer of soft white snow.

Maeglin was putting the finishing touches on a circlet for the Lord of Imladris when she heard boisterous shouts and laughter outside the foundry’s shuttered windows. Reluctant to leave the cosy warmth of the smithy, she tried to ignore it. There were many voices, but there was one voice, one laugh that she could not mistake.

 _Glorfindel_.

A loud burst of silvery laughter, loud cheers and claps, interlaced with several cries of dismay.

Curiosity getting the better of her, she wrapped her cloak around her, pulled up the hood, and stepped out into the cold of the winter day.

In an Imladrin winter tradition, the Commander of Imladris had challenged his captains and elite corps—twenty-odd warriors—to a snowfight. Him against them all. There had been the odd year when a branch had broken beneath him, or when the snow had slid out under his feet on a roof slope, but apart from that, for the past three millennia he had almost always won. The battles the warriors talked and sang of for years after were the handful where their coordinated attack on him had actually succeeded. The same strategy never worked twice against him, and each year the warriors looked forward to the challenge with an extra gleam in their bright eyes, plotting and planning for days ahead how they would take him down.

Glorfindel loved snow. In Gondolin, he had delighted in the first snowfall each winter as only a Noldo who had never crossed the Helcaraxë could. In Aman, where most of the land basks in an eternal spring and summer, he had been drawn every now and again to scale the Pelóri range past the snow line, or wander north past Formenos, to where majestic ancient glaciers still towered.

North of Imladris valley, in the Coldfells, blizzards howled in winter and snow trolls brought icy avalanches down on the unsuspecting traveller. But here, in Elrond’s sheltered valley which lay under the power of Vilya, the winters were clement and beautiful, with soft, deep falls of white snow in its coldest month.

Right now, their battle had moved into the apple orchard outside the smithy. Glorfindel was quickly picking off his best warriors with well-aimed snowballs. All of them never ceased to wonder at the swiftness and skill with which he managed to shape and throw his snowy projectiles while staying on the run. The rule was the game was simple. A hit to any part of the body meant you were out, and so far he had knocked out eleven of them and was still untouchable. Those already eliminated from the game stood around cheering.

Glorfindel’s musical laugh rang out in the frosty air. “Come on, my brave captains! Is this the best you can do this year?” he called out tauntingly as he ran, leaving next to no prints on the soft snow. “Has winter feasting has made you so slow?”

He was a golden and grey blur of fluid movement in his winter cloak, almost dancing as he dodged the white missiles flying at him. His white missile landed in the face of another warrior and he laughed merrily as cheers broke out. Without a pause, he swung himself up a tree with one fluid move, dispatched another warrior with a snowball to the chest, and hurled another snowball into Erestor’s face—just for fun—as the hapless counsellor emerged round the corner of the house.

“Surely you can do better than that!” he sang out to his warriors as he leapt from his tree into another, landing with a grace and surefootedness that would shame a cat. “Put some heart into it, my worthies—”

And then his eyes met Maeglin’s.

For just a fraction of a moment the balrog-slayer lost his concentration and almost his footing. It was enough. A relentless volley of white snowballs from the best warriors in Imladris pelted the elflord and knocked him out of his tree and onto the snow below. To give him credit he landed on his feet, but all twenty-six of the elite were upon him at once with howls of triumph, and rapidly buried their laughing Commander in a snow drift. Soon, so much snow was being flung in the air that a mini blizzard seemed to have erupted, and all the fair, brave warriors were giggling and snorting with laughter and tumbling about in the soft, deep snow. 

And through the flurry of snow, lithe bodies and long elven hair, even as he gave Gildor a faceful of snow, Glorfindel saw his black-eyed maiden leaning against an apple tree and laughing helplessly till her eyes had tears.

And he thought he hadn’t minded his pride taking a tumble just to see that.

 

Snow blanketed the fair city of Gondolin, white on white. The Lord of the Mole, walking through the square, stopped to watch the Lord of the Golden Flower making a public spectacle of himself. Yet again.

The youngest Lord of Gondolin was only ninety-five years old that winter but he felt that the Lord of the Golden Flower, the second youngest Lord and three centuries older than himself, behaved infinitely more childishly.

Sixteen children of the House of the Golden Flower were chuckling and squealing with delight as they ran after their golden-haired lord, rolling snowballs in their little hands and flinging them at him. Glorfindel loved these moments with the elflings, simply for the joy in innocent play they gave him. That it also gave him a chance to talent-spot those with exceptionally good reflexes and deadly aim was far less important, but well, still useful.

“ _Nai!_ You got me!!” he cried as one tot barely reaching his knee successfully hit him in the thigh with snow.

He fell dramatically to the ground, grabbing his thigh, and with wild squeals they were clambering over him, sitting on his chest and legs, and wrapping their arms around his neck and pulling at his long golden hair. “We _got_ him! We _got_ him!” “ _Kill_ the giant!” “ _Tie_ his legs!” They rolled about in the snow laughing, as elf matrons rushed in fearful for the safety of both their lord and their children.

“’Tis fine, goodwives, all happy and no harm done,” said the golden elflord, somehow managing to rise to his feet with a child in each arm. The little girl on his back had her arms so tightly wrapped around his neck that he could barely speak. Another five little ones of various heights latched onto his legs, and squealed with delight as he tried to walk. The ladies retrieved their children, a few of them brushing snow off the elflord’s clothes and hair.

“’Tis time to sup, lord.”

“Will you come partake with us?” said one as she removed a child trying to pull out a handful of the elflord’s famous locks.

“Thank you for the generous invitation, goodwives, but the lords sup with the king tonight,” Glorfindel said with a smile and a graceful bow, taming his rumpled hair with his fingers. Catching sight of the Lord of the Mole, he hailed him cheerfully. “Well met, Prince Lómion!”

Must the irritant always be so confoundedly cheerful?

“Well met. Reliving elfling days, I see, Lord Laurefindil.”

As this was more loquacious than usual for the taciturn, black-haired lord, Glorfindel was encouraged to reply, “Not merely for elflings, Prince Lómion. A little snow play does everyone a world of good methinks.” He stooped to roll a snowball and said, “Come! Join me for a short one, I pray!”

“I think not—” Maeglin began, and got a faceful of snow.

Eyes gleaming with mischief, Glorfindel said. “That was the challenge. Now. The rules. Very simple. A hit to any part of the body of the opponent decides the victor.” He had rolled another ball in his hands, and was holding it in readiness. He cocked his head to one side, waiting. “ _Cundunya?_ ”

Glorfindel smiled in anticipation as Maeglin, glowering dangerously, stooped and picked up a handful of snow.

Glorfindel was faster and lighter, but Maeglin was alert and quite agile himself. The two darted around the square, unleashing a rapid series of missiles, none of which found their target. Despite the slight smile on his face, Maeglin was in deadly earnest. What angered him was that he sensed Glorfindel was larking around and barely trying, whereas he was putting all he had into both assault and defence. _Complacency_ _will_ _be_ _the_ _dolt’s_ _undoing_ , he thought grimly with narrowed eyes.

Into every snowball he flung, Maeglin loaded thirty-eight years of anger and resentment at the golden-haired lord. He thought of Idril laughing at Glorfindel’s silly jokes, dancing with him at feasts, holding his arm as they walked her gardens, fair heads together deep in talk. He saw in his mind Idril planting a loving kiss on Glorfindel’s cheek, rumpling his golden hair affectionately, calling him “my golden knight”. The rage of jealousy spurred him, and the violence of his icy projectiles was so great that when he finally hit Glorfindel on the side of the head as they chased each other around and over the frozen fountain, the Lord of the Golden Flower fell face down into the snow and lay there stunned for a short while. As Maeglin compacted his snowballs more densely, his snowball had packed quite a blow. The prince gave a shout of victory, and the crowd that had gathered to watch burst into applause, which gathered in volume as Glorfindel got to his feet rubbing the side of his head ruefully, but grinning from ear to ear.

“Good shot, Lómion!” Glorfindel said, brushing snow from his face, which was glowing from his exertions. He came forward to shake hands. “You throw a mean snowball!” And Maeglin found himself grasping the proffered hand firmly in his own, and returning a wry smile.

“See you later at the palace, my prince!” Glorfindel called as he waved and headed home to dress for dinner.

Going on his way, Maeglin felt his blood warm in his veins, and his heart lighter than it had been for many seasons.

A little snowplay could indeed do one a world of good.

* * *

_Glossary_

_Cundunya [Q] - my prince_


	13. Spurned

Maeglin had no patience for the tiresome antics of the cadets who still sometimes hung about the smithy and teased her. She ignored them in the same way she ignored Glorfindel. But when a tall young archer with brown hair in one long braid and glittering green eyes came alone one summer day, leaned in at the window of her workroom and shyly offered her a lovely bouquet of wildflowers, she looked into his shining gentle eyes and was so taken aback that she took it from his hand. Camaen, passing by later, saw the flowers lying on the table.

“And what is this, lass?”

Was he an idiot? “Flowers.”

He smiled. “Whence came they, I mean? You are not one to gather flowers like the other lasses here.”

She shrugged. “An archer whose leg I patched up once.” For Arasdil son of Erildur was the young cadet whose leg she had stitched up seven summers ago in the healing halls. “A form of belated thanks, I assume.”

Camaen chuckled. “Let me put that into water for you.”

Glorfindel entered the forge just then, and raised his eyebrows at the incongruous sight of broad-shouldered Camaen in his smith’s apron walking out of the workroom holding a delicate bouquet of blue, white and golden blossoms in his large hand.

“Our little lass has an admirer,” Camaen whispered to Glorfindel, as he scooped some water from his cooling trough into an empty tankard and chucked the bouquet into it. 

“What? She is too young for such nonsense!” said Glorfindel sharply, for all the world like a protective parent.

“’Tis young Arasdil, and he’s but turned forty-four this spring. I wager he’s no older than our mystery lass. In fact, she could be older by several _yéni_ , judging by the way _she_ behaves.” Camaen was more correct about Maeglin’s age than he would ever know, thought Glorfindel, as the smith walked back into the workroom with the flowers.

 “Please, Camaen. Not in here. It will get in my way,” said Maeglin, barely looking up from the pattern she was engraving on the hilt of a hunting knife. Though they would still formally be master and apprentice for ten years, the usual term for such training, they related to each other as equals by now. Modest and easy-going Camaen had no qualms, in fact, about deferring to her knowledge on some matters, so deep was his respect for her craft. Glorfindel never ceased to be thankful that Erchaildir had sailed. The clash of egos between the old mastersmith and Maeglin would have been fearsome.

“I shall put it on the window sill, then,” said Camaen.

“Fine. _Gi hannon,”_ said Maeglin indifferently, not giving the flowers a second glance, as Glorfindel was glad to see.

“I feel sorry for the boy already,” said Camaen to Glorfindel, returning to the forge, and firing up the furnace for smelting. “It does no harm, this kind of puppy love. ’Tis innocent, I would call it pure, almost. We all went through it, did we not, back in our own days as tender green saplings?”

Glorfindel did not know about that. He had never carried a torch for anyone, before Maeglin. His own memories of his tender sapling days, spent fending off the attentions of various _ellith_ , were neither that innocent nor pure. Such as the time Salgant’s twin daughters, a couple of decades older than he, had cornered him in the biology section of the library at Nevrast to “practice kissing”. He had been only thirty-six at the time, and his good manners and natural chivalry, combined with his inexperience at that age, had rendered him clueless as to how to escape their clutches. Salgant’s daughters were almost as big-boned as their father, and the encounter had left the boy considerably traumatized. The knowledge that Maeglin was likely to violently knee anyone who attempted to practice kissing on her did not prevent the elflord’s hackles from rising at the mere thought of it.

Glorfindel knew Arasdil, and reason would normally have assured him that the boy’s intentions towards Maeglin were of the most honourable sort, but violent passion tends to cloud judgement. So dark were his thoughts towards the son of Erildur that the elflord struggled not to come down harshly on him during training. And though he stopped short of following the archer, he had a good idea where the boy went each day after training ended.

Arasdil went by the smithy several times over the next two weeks, each time with something small for Maeglin, offered in the same quiet way. His offerings included a pretty poem which made her cringe, a skilled sketch of her at work, and more flowers. To her own surprise, she neither cold-shouldered him nor threw them back in his face. She accepted each silently, albeit without even a thank you (for she feared that might be construed as encouragement), taking them from the hand he stretched through the window, and laying them on her worktable.

After he left, she would frown and stare into space for a while. Her former life had taught Maeglin well that love brings naught but pain and should be shunned at all costs. She had no use for such nonsense, should drive away this boy. Yet she found herself curiously loath to hurt him.

Suddenly, she was back in Gondolin, where a young _ellon_ helplessly and hopelessly in love with a golden princess had brought her gifts from his forge. A ring he had fashioned, set with diamonds. A hairpin. Jewels brought out from his mines, cut and polished himself. Even jewels created by his own hand. His skills being largely with weapons and armour, love alone spurred him to craft such gifts, pouring himself into them. But the princess had worn his gifts once or twice, out of mere politeness, and after the show of appreciation had never been seen with them again. Many were the gifts lavished on her by adoring subjects, and Idril would wear none of them for a long season—save for three things: a ring of her dead mother’s, a circlet from her father, and a moonstone in her hair that had cost a young Glorfindel five months’ of his allowance when he was still a child.

The prince of Gondolin had had no scruples about being cruel. He had jilted a number of lovelorn maidens, Penlod’s daughter included. But now, in this second life, this boy Arasdil touched Maeglin in a way she did not understand. There was something pure and gentle in his eyes. A reminder of a remote time when she had been more innocent. A memory of her own hurt.

Then, one day, he waited for her to finish her work and asked if he could walk with her. And much to her own bemusement, she found herself strolling with him over the meadow and under the birch trees. She cursed herself for a fool, for getting herself into this. They walked silently through the buttercups and cornflowers. It was awkward. It was stupid. She was about to excuse herself and leave when his friends, who were sparring with quarterstaffs on a terrace outside the house, espied them. They lifted up a great uproar of cheers and whistles. Arasdil turned red, and she was so furious that she could have snatched the bow and quiver from his back and shot them all dead. Glorfindel did not join in. He stood apart with an unreadable expression on his face, then sharply silenced his cadets with a curt command.

The cadets fell silent, but wide grins were still plastered on their faces as they winked meaningfully at the pair in the meadows and blew fatuous kisses into the wide space between them.

Across the distance, the eyes of the smith’s apprentice and the Commander met for a moment. A current of understanding and sympathy passed between them. A common opinion of the juvenile behaviour of cretinous cadets.

Her eyes broke away from Glorfindel’s. Without a glance at the archer by her, Maeglin turned and raced away to the woods, stopping only at the edge of a waterfall pool. She shut her eyes, and let the shout of the waters block out all her thoughts, let the mist blowing off the cascading waters fall damp on her face and hair. When she opened her eyes, she saw the archer standing by her quietly, his green eyes soft and thoughtful as he gazed upon her.

“Are you all right?” he said. “Don’t mind them. They’re silly but they mean no harm.”

He reached out to take her hand. Her fingers flinched away from his and she stepped away abruptly.

“Don’t—”

“ _Naethen_ …” Arasdil blushed deeply.

The black eyes rested on him, an abyss of darkness, revealing nothing. “You know naught of me.”

“But I wish to know. Everything.”

She shook her head slowly, and a bitter, mirthless smile touched a corner of her mouth. “It were better for you that you do not.”

She saw bewilderment and compassion on his face. “You—you’ve suffered, I can tell. I’ve watched you. There is a sadness in your eyes.”

The tenderness in his voice made her harsh.

“Well, stop watching,” she said curtly. “I mislike being spied upon.”

“Lómiel, my sweet, I—”

She cringed and hastily cut off the declaration of devotion she felt building up in his tone. “It is late. We should go back now.”

Without waiting for him, she turned and swiftly walked away. Then, feeling pity, she allowed him to catch up with her. They walked to the house in silence, two arm lengths between them.

At the great doors of the house, watching the young archer walk away towards the village where he lived, she was troubled. She wanted nothing to do with this innocent child. There was nothing she could do but taint him with her darkness.

And still, she was loath to hurt him.

Maeglin knew that there was no way that Idril could have spurned her that would not have rent her heart in two.

 

The autumn moon hung huge and golden in a star-filled sky. The young prince of Gondolin abruptly left the feast in the King’s great hall and went out into the garden, where the flower beds were already bare, and a thin layer of frost lay on the earth and on the trees as they turned red and gold.

He could bear it no longer. Could not bear to see her, be in her presence, hungering to touch, and to know that he could not hope to. That till the unmaking of all things, this love was forbidden among the Eldar.

Why must it have been _her_? More than half Vanyarin by blood, steeped in the laws and customs given to the Eldar by the Valar. There were other ways, other laws, among the Avari in Nan Elmoth. He could hear a Dark Elf’s mocking laughter. This was his retribution for disowning his father’s blood, for choosing his mother’s people and adopting their ways.

And why, _why_ by all the cruelty of cold fate had Idril and he to be born close kin? How truly was he accursed for abandoning Nan Elmoth, for choosing the ways of the golodhrim and with it their laws. Yes, it was the Dark Elf cursing him even now from beyond the grave and blighting every hope of happiness that Maeglin might ever have. Forever.

 _Forever_. It was a terrible word. This was only his hundredth year, and the last fifty years had been a torment that had seemed endless. What would _forever_ mean, to an immortal? What would it mean, to have a love that is never to be requited, desire that is never to be sated, a fire that will never be quenched?

 _Never_. An even more terrible word. Despair that has no end. The heat, he could not bear it, that burned in him day and night. He was going mad. Perhaps he already was.

He felt the cold autumn breeze on his burning cheeks. He looked over the city wall and remembered his father’s curse.

He looked down and felt dizzy. It would be so easy just to fall and end it all.

It would take so little.

“Lómion, there you are! Why are you here, all alone in the night?”

_That voice._

He did not turn or reply. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, as with cold. He did not trust himself. He wanted to seize her slender waist, to kiss the white throat.

“It is cold out here,” she said, joining him at the balustrades, her golden hair tumbling down her back almost to her knees. She had been dancing with Glorfindel when Maeglin left the hall, and she was still a little breathless, her spirit light with gaiety and exhilaration, her face bright with a smile. The sight of the golden pair’s happiness and beauty as they twirled together with the other couples in the hall had been too much for Maeglin. As had been the admiring comments whispered by others near him: _“What a stunning couple they make…  yes… meant for each other…  so what if she raised him? There is no blood tie… I would not be surprised if the King gives his consent to their match some day.”_

And now here she was, all aglow, as one in love might be. “Come, do you not wish to dance? There are a dozen fair maids within who are eager to be introduced to you.”

“I do not dance, cousin,” he said tightly, unable to look in the eye the only person in all of Arda he would ever wish to dance with.

Her laugh, light and lilting, was like a merry mountain brook. “Ah, that has been an oversight. I should arrange for some dancing lessons for you. But it is easy. Come, I can show you how to, right now.” And she gave a graceful little twirl. Her white, slender feet beneath her shimmering silver skirts were bare even in the autumn frost.

“No, Itarillë. Leave me be. Please.”

With another laugh, she reached for his hand. “Do not be shy, Lómion. I am sure you will dance very well!”

He shivered at her touch, felt his heat rising and overpowering him. “Please. No. Itarillë.”

“Have no fear! No one can see us here,” she said, and pulled him into the centre of the courtyard.

Dazed, he felt her place his hand on her waist, felt the heat of her closeness, smelt her hair. _He could not stop himself._ He tightened his grip on her, and pulled her closer, almost not knowing what he did. Her grey eyes widened at the hardness of his touch, and she saw the darkness in his black eyes and suddenly realized her danger. Now she tried to pull away, and found his strong arms gripping her like a vice. “Itarillë.” His voice was husky with desire, and pleading. He kissed her on the mouth, tentatively at first, then with a hungry urgency, even as he felt her stiffen and resist. With a sudden burst of desperate strength, she broke away, and with pain, he saw the fear and repulsion in her eyes.

“Lómion! What are you doing?” Her voice now had a hard edge, the brilliant grey eyes penetrating, seeing him as though for the first time. She backed away.

He advanced on her, his voice low and desperate, the words spilling out intense and rushed. “I love you, Itarillë. I cannot help it. From the moment I saw you. I could as soon stop loving you as I could stop breathing—“

 “Lómion, no! You know that we are first cousins, brother and sister. It could never be—“

“Of course I know!” The anguish was sharp in his voice. “Yet I cannot but love you, Itarillë. I have _tried_ —I did not want this. You do not know how I have fought it, day and night. But I cannot help it. I want you, I _need_ you—like I need air—”

His voice shook, and his dark eyes were full of hurt and despair and rage.

She turned to run, but he seized her and kissed her again, pushing her roughly back against a wall on which a leafless vine climbed, and pinning her there with his own body.

“I did not choose this. I love you—oh Eru, I _need_ you. There is only one hope—there are other laws—laws other than those of the Eldar, among others of the Quendi. First cousins may wed. There could be a way,” he pleaded desperately, holding her tighter as she struggled to free herself. He could feel the racing of her heart against his chest.

Suddenly, she stopped fighting, and spoke in a voice that shook only slightly, “Lómion—listen to me. Let me go. We shall talk about it, calmly. Do not do this—”

From behind, someone pried the prince away from Idril with ease, then flung him away so that he fell into a tangle of blackened, withered stems and foliage.

Unhurt but stunned and humiliated, heart pounding, the prince got up from the dead flower bed and looked on the one who had dared lay hands on him, and who now knew his secret and his shame.

It was Glorfindel.

Shining golden in the autumn moonlight, the Lord of the Golden Flower stood protectively before his princess, and his eyes were dark blue and flashing angrily with fire. The eyes of the two lords locked in an antagonistic stare. They might have come to blows, but Glorfindel remembered who the prince of Gondolin was, and with an effort, inclined his head in a bow that was part apology and submission, part respect for the house to which he had pledged allegiance, to which he owed fealty.

But the fire in the golden lord’s eyes still said, _Touch her again, and I will hurt you._

Then Maeglin’s eyes met Idril’s, as she stood half hidden by Glorfindel. And in those piercing grey eyes, bright with the light of the Trees, he saw something else besides fear.

Maeglin saw with sudden clarity that it was not merely about kinship. He saw that it was he, Maeglin, whom she could not love. Would never love.

The knife twisted into the prince’s heart and sliced it into shreds, even as the hot flame of rage and shame and utter mortification washed over him. Almost blinded by his pain, he turned and fled the garden.

“Did he hurt you, my princess?” Glorfindel asked.

“No.” She felt nauseous. Glorfindel wrapped his strong arms around her and held her gently.

“I won’t let him hurt you, _Ammë_ ,” he said, lapsing into the term he had used in childhood. “If he touches you again, I will beat him black and blue.” Had Maeglin attempted to take a step towards Idril just now, Glorfindel would have knocked him out cold.

Safe now in her son’s arms, Idril recalled Maeglin’s words, which still rang in her ears. Amid her revulsion, a softer emotion stirred.

“Tell no one of this, _yonya_. No one. Not Ecthelion. Not even my _Atar_.”

“But _Ammë_ —the King should _know_ —”

“No. Promise me.”

“The King has a right to know what he did to you, to know what manner of man his nephew is, to whom he has entrusted power and position second only to his!”

“Promise me, Laurefindil.”

He sighed. “I promise, my princess.”

And Idril gazed at the garden path down which the prince of Gondolin had disappeared. There was deep pity in her grey eyes.

 

From that day, the prince’s hatred of Glorfindel burned deep. He wrapped his shame and pain in pride and aloofness. His words to the Lord of the Golden Flower were cool and civil, almost curt. That Glorfindel, in return, maintained a distant but consistently respectful and courteous demeanour towards the prince only increased the latter’s hate, for every sight of the golden-haired lord reminded him of his moment of deepest shame and anguish.

The Lord of the Mole was fair, with his smouldering, intense black eyes and black silken hair that fell thick to his waist. He had his mother’s fine features, and his father’s strong shoulders, and he moved with the wild grace of a forest predator. Many maids there were, who loved the dark beauty of the prince from afar. Many were there who dreamed of soothing away the loneliness and darkness lurking in his eyes with their love. But his eyes looked through them all, unseeing. And he withdrew more and more into his mines and his forges, like the Mole that named his house.

And ever the heat burned unsated within him. And ever the pain consumed him.

But in all his bitterness and despair, he could not hate the one who had spurned him. He loved her still.

_His Itarillë._

_Forever._

 

When the brown-haired archer returned the next day, Maeglin got up and walked to the workroom window, and they looked at each other.

“Please do not come here anymore,” she said, her voice as gentle as she knew how to make it. “It cannot work. Truly.” And a little awkwardly, she handed him his poems and drawings.

The emerald eyes were sad, but not surprised. He looked at the papers in his hand, and nodded. “I understand.”

His other hand took hers, lifted it to his lips, and gave her palm a tender kiss. Then he placed the poems and sketches she had returned to him back in her hand, and smiled at her, and walked away.

Maeglin stood at the window a while, still feeling the imprint of his lips warm on her palm.

Well, that’s done, she thought.

She walked to the furnace, and tossed the papers into the fire carelessly.

Then, suddenly thinking better of it, she seized tongs, fished the papers out, and beat the flames dead with her hands.

Folding the scorched papers carefully, she slipped them into her apron pocket.

Something so pure might never touch her life again.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Yéni (Q) – elvish years (plural). One yén = 144 solar years.

Gi hannon (S) – “thank you” between familiars

Naethen (S) – “my sorrow” – sorry

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Grey Annals put Maeglin’s age as 80 when he arrives at Gondolin, just about when elves come of age (between 50-100 years old). I took the liberty of making him 50, even younger and more vulnerable. The multiple blows of his mother's death, his father's execution, his hopeless infatuation with Idril, and his entry into a foreign culture where he is friendless—almost all at once—would be incredibly traumatising for anyone, let alone an angsty, introverted teenager on the cusp of adulthood.


	14. Dreams and Demons

Glorfindel arrived at the smithy to find Maeglin’s workroom window and door shut, though he knew she was there.

“What’s up with her?” he asked Camaen.

Camaen shook his head. “Wish I knew. She shut it all of a sudden. Just before you arrived.”

His heart wrenched yet again, a familiar ache over the past years that he was never able to numb himself against. She might have seen him taking Asfaloth to the stable, and knew he would be stopping by. Midsummer was drawing near, and the sun was bright and warm. It would be sweltering in the closed room.

“She sent the boy Arasdil away, earlier this morn,” whispered Camaen. “Told him not to come round again.”

Glorfindel could not help the leap of gladness in his heart, no matter how snubbed he felt presently. Just then, Estel arrived with his black horse, Duiroch.

“Need the shoes checked, Camaen!—why, what goes on here?”

“Nothing. Only that she has shut herself in,” said Glorfindel, with a nod toward the closed door.

Estel sauntered over to the door and opened it, for there was no lock, as Glorfindel knew well—except that _he_ would not have dared to be as bold, not with her. “ _Naugwen!_ It’s a hot afternoon. Trying to cook yourself in here, are you?” The _adan_ was a tall young fellow of eighteen now. Both he and Maeglin had grown taller over the years, and the day that he had overtaken her by a finger’s breadth, in his fifteenth year, he had with a gleeful laugh coined her “Shorty”.

“I am trying to get work done, _Estenguil_.”—she had retaliated by calling him “Short-Life”—“Keep it down out there. I need to concentrate.”

“You will concentrate better with some air. Holy Elbereth, it’s an oven in here!”

Glorfindel said, clearly enough, “Well, I had best be off. Estel, we leave tomorrow morning before daybreak. Be sharp, and be on time.”

Just before he disappeared around the stables, he glanced back over his shoulder. As expected, he saw that Estel had persuaded her to open the window and the doors. He paused a moment, hoping to catch just a glimpse of her, but she stayed away from the ivy-framed window.

Heavy-hearted with disappointment, he walked away.

 

Glorfindel disappeared with Estel into the wilds for the next two months—an expedition to hone Estel’s woodcraft and tracking skills. Maeglin had previously welcomed his absences from Imladris. The elflord was such a nuisance: bothering her with trivial bits of work not worth her time. Coming by almost every day, chatting with Camaen. Staring at her through the door or the window of her room when he thought she or Camaen would not notice. Making futile attempts to chat with her, or to make himself useful.

This time, to her anger and exasperation, she found herself restless in his absence, found herself hearing the echo of his voice in the distance, seeing phantom gleams of gold at the corner of her eye; absolute rubbish, since she knew full well he was not around.

And she could not understand what had caused this inexplicable shift. Their eyes had met across a meadow, and it had been as though she were seeing him for the first time—him, whom she had known over a hundred years! The fierce protectiveness in his stern, unsmiling face, and something angry yet vulnerable in his blue eyes—a jealousy, a tenderness, a heartsickness.

She had turned and fled from it. As she had stood with shut eyes by the waterfall, the turmoil within her had had little to do with the boy Arasdil. She had still felt deep blue eyes upon her. And felt, within her breast, a confused ache stirring, a tightening in her throat.

At dinner that night, they had sat at the far ends of the table from each other, she by Thalanes and Lindir, he at Elrond’s right hand. But the air between them was charged, as with the electricity of a thunderstorm. She had felt him though she dared not look at him, seen him in her mind even as her eyes looked away.

And that night, she had dreamed.

A vast moon danced golden in a starry sky. On a garden terrace, a tall elflord shielded a frightened princess.

In the prince of Gondolin’s heart raged a confused storm of desire and despair and deep need. Except that it was not the golden princess on whom his eyes rested.

It was on deep gold hair streaming in a cold autumn breeze like a lion’s mane, on flawless chiselled features set in a stern frown; on blue eyes blazing with a deep, dangerous fire; on the breadth of strong shoulders and the lean muscled lines of a warrior’s body.

Maeglin had awoken with a gasp in her dark chamber in Imladris.

That in itself was nothing new. All her nights of sleep ended in her waking up gasping and trembling. It was why she preferred working in the smithy for nights on end, rather than retiring to rest; why she slept only when she was desperately weary. The violent manifestation of that first night, which had brought Glorfindel running to her room, may not have recurred, but the nightmares came all the same. . .so many kinds of nightmare, each with so many variations.

Amil falling, white-faced, pierced with a javelin. Watching her die. Keeping vigil as she lay dead. Adar cursing, cursing and falling, still cursing as he fell.

The road to Angband. Whipped and dragged in chains by orcs. Two hundred miles.

The torture chamber and its infinitely imaginative means of inflicting pain. The faces of the dark lord, of his lieutenant.

The fatal moment of weakness, and of damnation.

The duel with that mortal. Then falling, falling, turning in space, the earth rushing to meet him.

And, for the past year, nightmares of her secret being exposed in Imladris. Faces turning away in shock and horror. Familiar voices raised in anger and condemnation. Elrond harshly driving her away.

Compared with all those dreams, surely this one was nothing. _Nothing._ And yet, she had lain in equal horror as she woke.

Had lain in the dark, trying not to think of a warrior who lay in a room just two doors away. Had clutched at every cause she had to loathe him, stoking the flames of her hate.

The next day, when she had seen him through the smithy window, heading to the stables with Asfaloth, she had panicked and shut the window shutters and door of the workroom, and sat there listening to his voice, her rebel heart in chaos.

And in her heart she cursed Irmo, as Irmo had surely cursed her.

 

“ _Ai!_ Give that back!” Estel exclaimed as Glorfindel snatched the flat, grey stone away from him.

“You may not always have flint when you need a fire. Come, you know the techniques. Show me one. You need practice.”

“Hmmm. . .”

Glorfindel watched as Estel looked about thoughtfully, and got up to gather suitable tools. He had been out with the Rangers once already, had joined the patrols since he was sixteen, and he was a good student. He had an excellent memory, for a mortal.

The golden-haired warrior leaned back against a tree, his mind wandering as the boy brought more pieces of wood back, and sat down with his knife to carve a groove in the base and whittle a spindle drill.

Whenever he was away from Maeglin, Glorfindel would strive to smother his love, would try to remember the prince of Gondolin as he had been. The night he had assaulted the princess. The antagonism between them thereafter. Tensions and barbed remarks at council meetings and during war games. Sure, he had saved the prince of Gondolin’s life in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, but after a brief, curt word of thanks, the enmity had resumed. Never once did either allude to what happened that moonlit night, but it hung always between them.

Estel rotated the spindle in the groove between his hands. “This is the first time I’ll be missing the Gates of Summer. Could this not have waited till next week?”

Glorfindel normally loved feasts, and for the past few millennia he had been haunted by no demons of the past during Tarnin Austa. But he had not enjoyed it as much, the last few years. “You need to apply more pressure. Put your upper body weight on it more,” he instructed Estel, as though the boy had not spoken.

A red ember glowed and came to life. Estel gave a shout of triumph—only to have the ember die before he could apply the tinder. His face fell.

“Try again. Be patient—and blow on it more next time.”

Estel resumed the rotation of the spindle. “Do you still think about it? The Fall?”

Glorfindel was silent. The faces of the dead rose before him. Ecthelion. Turgon. Rog. And the face of the traitor.

Torture or no torture, Maeglin had returned to the city as though all were well, and waited—for years—till Morgoth brought his deadly assault upon the city. And in Eldamar, Idril had related to Glorfindel, in anger and sorrow, how Maeglin had sought to take her by force, had attempted to slay Eärendil. How he had gloated over what Morgoth had promised him. Before such incomprehensible evil, Glorfindel’s heart always sickened.

And it was this, _this_ that he loved?

“Sometimes,” he replied at last to Estel’s question.                 

“Is that why you do not want to be at Tarnin Austa?”

“Estel, are you going to get that fire started before morning?”

Eyes on the spindle grinding in the groove, Glorfindel thought glumly of how, after he could no longer sustain the pretence that Maeglin Lómiel was a threat to the line of Eärendil, he had struggled to stay away from the smithy. Each time he went to the stables, he would feel the pull. Time and time again, his willpower would crumble, and his feet would carry him there, to speak to Camaen, if the smith was there, and if he was not, to sit on the bench outside her window and awkwardly attempt to talk to her. And whenever he was in her presence, all he could do was abjectly adore and yearn for her.

He usually left the smithy feeling far more wretched than when he came.

“Lean forward, Estel. More weight on the arms,” he said absent-mindedly.

The ember finally came to life again. Estel nursed it lovingly; it caught the tinder. He grinned with triumph as flames licked at the wood and danced skyward. Then he grimaced at his blistered hands.

“Try the bow method tomorrow. It may be easier on your hands,” Glorfindel suggested. “Almost an hour. You have to be faster.” He tossed the rabbit to the boy. “Start skinning and gutting. I’m timing you.” And leaning back against his tree, he stared into the flames.

 

An autumn night under a harvest moon, white stars burning in the sky above. In the bare, desolate garden stood his princess-mother, and her enraged cousin, and Glorfindel placing himself between them. His eyes were on the prince of Gondolin, the Lord of the Mole, who stood in the moonlight with his raven black hair blowing in the chill autumn breeze, his obsidian eyes smouldering with hurt and loneliness.

Glorfindel walked over to the prince. And in the golden-silver moonlight, he took the prince’s face gently in his hands.

And kissed his lips.

Glorfindel awakened with a start, and sat bolt upright, his blue eyes wide with shock.

“Glorfindel! Are you all right?”

Heart pounding, he stared at the dark forest around him. Saw Estel on the other side of the fire, eyeing him with concern.

“Just a dream,” he said, a little shakily. “Go back to sleep, young one.”

The warrior stared the rest of the night at the glowing embers of the campfire. He usually slept so soundly that he hardly remembered his dreams when he woke.

This one looked to be unforgettable.

As dawn lightened the sky, the taste of the prince's mouth was still in his.

 

They stood assembled on the city walls of Gondolin in the night, arrayed in all the colours of the rainbow, a people facing east, waiting to salute the dawn.

She was walking among the people, among the lords, trying to warn them. To tell them of the coming horror. Tell them to flee.

But she had no voice. And they could not see her.

Then, a burst of flame on the northern mountaintops.

And she watched. Watched as it all happened again. Watched as they all died again. Unable to do a thing.

As she woke, tears were running down her face.

 

Midsummer. Shortly after midnight.

Maeglin sat down on a rock in the western heights of the valley, and gazed down at the house and the river small below her. She was surrounded by dark, shadowy stands of fir and pine, and the rushing sound of the breeze blowing through them soothed her _fëa_. The Imladrim would already be assembled on the lawns outside the house for the silent night vigil, facing east and waiting to salute the dawn. They might miss her. She did not care.

It was her eighth Tarnin Austa in Imladris, yet only twice had she joined in.

The first Midsummer had been shortly after the skirmish with orcs, and she had spent it laid up in the healing halls. The second year, she had joined them in an attempt to blend in. She had experienced something close to a panic attack as dawn approached, and fled as soon as the dancing and feasting began. The following year, Thalanes had found her hiding in her bedchamber, and had persuaded her to don a dress and join the vigil. It had been equally gruesome. The next few years, she had barricaded herself in the smithy and drowned herself in work.

This year, the twins had jokingly threatened to break down the smithy doors and make her join the vigil and later dance with them. So she had grimly taken refuge on these slopes, arming herself as she might for hunting, and beginning her ascent an hour before midnight. She should have brought some small pieces of work to craft, she thought with a regretful pang. No matter. There were things she could do to keep herself busy. It would be like being a boy in Nan Elmoth again. Explore the slopes. Find good pieces of pine wood and whittle shapes out of them with her knife. Forage for berries. Hunt for caves. Play with some squirrels. The festivities would continue for a week, so she could sneak out of the valley for a few days. She had her knives and her bow and arrows. She knew how to fight. She would return only when all the festivities had ceased, and life went back to normal.  

Then, in the hour before dawn, she had heard the song.

It was a single voice, rising and falling on the breeze. A voice fairer than any nightingale’s, so dulcet and heartbreaking that she had no words for it.

She stood up, mesmerized.

She discerned fragments of phrases, both Quenya and Sindarin, weaving a tale of ancient sorrow. Swanships burning on a shore. A massacre in a thousand caves. Blood flowing crimson on an evening tide. . .Grief upon layer of grief.

Tears flowed freely down her face as she walked towards the unseen singer. She did not understand how listening to such sorrow—a sorrow deeper than her own—could heal her own soul; how a song so dark, so soaked in guilt and remorse, could somehow touch her own darkness and guilt and comfort her. 

Then golden light spilled into the valley, as the sun rose in its splendour. And the voice fell silent.

As she heard the faint chorus of the Imladrim lifted up from the valley below, she was overcome by emptiness and loss.

In the months that followed, she would climb these slopes again and again, hoping to hear that voice, longing to receive its comfort again.

Longing also to find him and comfort him.

To tell him that he was not alone.

 

Glorfindel stirred from his sleep to the sound of the sea echoing off stone walls. Moonlight spilled silver across a tapestry of Laurelin and Telperion: his bed chamber in Vinyamar. A familiar scent. Black hair falling across his face. A maiden in a black silk slip on all fours, on his bed, looking down at him with piercing obsidian eyes.

 _“Lómiel??_ What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I am doing, you dolt?” She slipped under the sheets and then all was softness and warmth and wonder and they were kissing and caressing and—

The door burst open and a great gust of wind blew in.

 _“Á pusta!!”_ thundered a mighty voice and the whole chamber shook. _“Laurefindil! what are you doing??”_

Glorfindel gasped as powerful hands dragged him from the bed and shoved him against a wall and in shock he gazed into the blazing silver-grey eyes of his king.

 _“M-melda tár,”_ he stammered. “ _Melin sé._ If you would give your blessing, I would wed her.”

 _“WED HER?”_ The very foundations of the palace of Vinyamar shook as the voice boomed. “ _Wed HER? NEVER!!”_ Turgon’s grey eyes burned into his. _“Laurefindil, I AM YOUR FATHER.”_

 

Glorfindel sat bolt upright in his bed, heart pounding and in a cold sweat. It was a dream. Only a dream. Thanks be to Eru it was only a dream.

But it had been so vivid, so _real_. Every detail was etched in his memory

What if it were true?

Idril had tried to protect him as a child from rumours, but of course he had managed to overhear them in the way that children do. In the marketplace at Vinyamar. In a corridor of the palace.

That he was Prince Turgon’s bastard. _Úcarehína_. Child of sin.

He had not understood the term. And Idril had been livid when he had asked her, though he understood her anger was not against him. And she had refused to explain what it meant. Idril’s usual response to his moments of existential angst usually involved a lot of cuddling and kisses and assurance that he was loved, and that of course his true parents loved him, and that he should not to listen to nonsense in the marketplace.

A flash of light outside his window and a low rumble of distant thunder.

It was not too far-fetched. The bereaved prince had been grieving, lonely. In those days, he had for long stretches disappeared from Nevrast on journeys which he spoke of to none. Had he sought comfort in fair arms elsewhere? And truly, among the Noldor, from whence could Glorfindel’s golden hair have come, save from one descended from Indis of the Vanyar? Had not Idril once remarked that his hair was the same rare shade of gold as her great-grandmother’s, and then looked as though she regretted the slip?

 _Úcarehíni_ were exceedingly rare among the Eldar, for in their culture to bed is to wed, and infidelity was unheard of—almost. The exile had sundered thousands of marriages, and not all had remained celibate throughout the lonely, bleak years in Beleriand. Everyone knew _úcarehíni_ existed, but they were not spoken of, save in whispers of rumours. Such was the love the Eldar had for children that any _úcarehína_ , any lost or abandoned child,was fostered out to couples, the adopted father giving his name to the child. As Finrod Felagund had done for Gildor, who was found abandoned as an infant in Taur-en-Faroth and brought to Nargothrond.

Not for Glorfindel. Idril had been a maiden when she chose in defiance of all conventions to adopt him, thus he had no father to name. If Turgon was his father, and knew it, thrones would never have gone to an _úcarehína,_ so Glorfindel would never have expected Turgon to acknowledge him anyway. . .

Glorfindel dragged himself from his bed, pulled on some clothes, and climbed down from his window out into the dark garden. Storm clouds were moving in across the valley. Trying to still the turmoil in his _fëa_ , he walked almost blindly through the strong winds, a few flying leaves catching in his bright hair.

Turgon. His father. . .

No no no, there had been other descendants of Indis in Beleriand. He ran desperately through the handful of names in his mind. It could have been any of those others.

Not Turgon.

Not Fingon.

_Please. . ._

But the dream had a power that he could not shake. Like a supernatural vision, a revelation from above. And horror and despair began to wash over him. Because of what it meant, if the dream were true.

Because it put him in exactly the position Maeglin Lómion had been in over six thousand years ago. Hopelessly, helplessly in love with a first cousin, forever sundered by blood and the edict of his race.

He shuddered as rain began to pelt down on him, feeling truly that the Valar had turned their faces away from him. That he was cursed.

That he had become Maeglin Lómion.

 

Maeglin had spent the last ten minutes with her pliers poised over the links of chainmail, doing absolutely nothing. “Get on with it, you stupid _huil_ ,” she muttered to herself, giving herself a shake, and resuming her work.

Glorfindel had not come to the smithy for a month.

When he and Estel had returned from their travels, Maeglin had pretended her usual coldness and indifference. She had always been on edge whenever he came to the smithy. Now, she found herself looking for him. And when she caught sight of him approaching, she found herself actually smoothing her hair back from her face, or checking her reflection in a shield leaning against the wall. She did not note when it happened, at what point over this season something momentous quietly shifted within her. . .a year ago? Months? Or only now? She did not even know, not ever having reflected on it. But she had begun to think of herself as a woman, had begun to be a woman, and no longer merely a man disguised in a woman’s body. She found herself stealing glances at him just as he stole glances at her. Her eyes lingered on his strong shoulders, and the slim, graceful lines of his back and his long legs. And his face. She could not deny it was a beautiful face. There were moments she simply stared, watching various emotions flit across his expressive features. Occasionally, when she went into the forge to use the anvil or furnace, as she passed by him she might brush ever so lightly against him, and feel him tense up.

And she hated herself for it, hated herself.

When her mind rehearsed all that she detested about him, she could no longer call upon the incident at the healing hall. The memory of what he had said to her only stirred her to toy with ideas of what she might do if he ever said them again.

Two months went by in this fashion. It was almost time for the autumn festival, when he suddenly stopped coming altogether.

Her impassive face and opaque black eyes gave away little, but she became irritable, flared once at Camaen over a trivial matter. Now, she was finding herself unable to focus on her work, and obsessing over why he was staying away. She saw him going to and from the stables. Yet he did not come by to talk to Camaen, or sit outside her window. At dinner and elsewhere, he avoided her like mortals avoid plague.

It was all too familiar a feeling.

He was fickle. He had desired only what he could not have. Now, she had given herself away—for surely he had seen desire in her glances, read those brushes against him, and lost interest in the chase. Bitterly, she thought of how the charms of another maiden might now be proving more enticing. He was shallow, as shallow as she had always suspected. He was detestable. She hated him with every fibre of her being.

In the distance, a white horse rode over far fields. The golden-haired rider checked the steed for a moment, turning his head to look at the smithy. Then, horse and rider turned and raced away like the wind toward the Bruinen Ford.

Maeglin watched until the last gleam of white and gold disappeared in the distance.

Deep in her heart, she felt an ache six millennia old.

 

A light, cold autumn rain fell as they buried Arasdil son of Erildur in the eastern foothills of the valley.

The Imladrin patrol had gone to the rescue of a caravan of traders, _edain,_ attacked on the northern road to the High Pass. The archer had been picking off orcs from higher ground. Intent on the fray below, he had not realized his danger till too late. Had died instantaneously, pierced by an orcish spear.

Camaen and Maeglin walked back to the smithy in silence and spread their wet cloaks to dry near the furnace. She retreated into her workroom. Piled on her table were sets of chainmail from the patrol, each with some minor damage to their links from the skirmish.

She worked into the night with the repairs, missing dinner. There was no urgency; there were sufficient sets in the guards’ armoury. But she wanted the mindlessness of the work. Not to think. Not to feel. Shortly before midnight, tools still in hand, she stared at the last piece. Looked at the hole torn through the mail—entry point at the back, the links stained still with traces of blood. She knew whose it was. Her lips tightened as she examined the chainmail links. An inferior alloy, weaker than those she had produced in Gondolin, for the ores here were not as those from her mines in Anghabar. It was no proof against a morgûl spear thrust with brutal force and with the full weight of a large, heavy orc behind it.

She doggedly proceeded to repair and reinforce the links. That finished, she dropped her tools upon the tabletop, and stared into space.

The losses of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad had been bitter. Over half of each house had fallen. Their centuries of training and preparation within the bubble of their cloistered valley had been, in the end, worth so little, so laughable, when finally tested against the full might of Morgoth’s armies. The armours forged by the Houses of the Hammer and the Mole had not saved enough.

Maeglin had devoted much work in the years that followed to creating better alloys, stronger armour, deadlier, more effective weapons. But all his work had availed nothing against the armies of Angband. Not all his armour, nor his weapons, nor the seventh gate. All the works of his hands had ended in futility and ruin. And bitterest of all, he had been the one to bring it to pass.

Maeglin paced restlessly about the smithy, the lantern light casting her shadow tall on the walls.

Seven years had she shut herself in here, burying herself in work. Idleness was the enemy, for then the abyss yawned before her. Futility and emptiness. Desires, appetite, longings. Demons. Darkness. Treachery.

Except the work had not been enough, recently. And now—the death of this boy. . .

She had knowledge of special techniques, formulae for the crafting of weapons and stronger armour, and she had held back from sharing with Camaen, fearing to give herself away too much. Had she shared them earlier, might a green-eyed archer yet be alive? Dared she share them now? Yet she realized, too, that with the amount of force behind the spear thrust, even had the mail held, the bones of the boy would have shattered and massive internal trauma and bleeding caused.

Futility and emptiness. . .

She drew a sword that had been sent in for polishing and sharpening, and hefted it, feeling its weight and balance. She remembered the Battle of Unnumbered Tears, and the skirmish in the hills, seven years back.

The elven sword sang as she wielded it in the dimly-lit workroom. Her shadow danced as it parried and thrust across the cold stone walls.

 

There is a large tower in Imladris crowned with a circular room called the Stardome, as in the name of the valley’s Lord. Over the years, it has served as an astronomy classroom for elflings, with tales of the stars painted on the walls, and a viewing dome of clear crystal overhead on which the star charts for the present season would appear, changing as the year rolled by, the names of the stars and constellations glowing across it in soft, white Tengwar script.

Glorfindel sat at one of the windows, staring out across the darkened valley. Its trees were bare and silent, to be filled with songs and elves only when spring returned again. He could see the dim, yellow light of Maeglin’s lantern at the smithy. And he saw when, in the hour after midnight, she left it and walked down the path towards the house.

In a warm, surreal alcohol-induced haze, he tried not to think either about Maeglin, or about Arasdil. There was nothing he could have done to save the lad—they had not had enough warriors to provide cover for the archer, with every one of them engaged in hand-to-hand combat with orcs, rescuing the hapless mortals. He knew that. He had played with the lad since he had been a baby, as he played with all the children of the valley. And he grieved the loss as he grieved all losses under his command.

But this time it had been different. As he had held the dead boy in his arms, he had realized with horror that part of him was glad the boy was gone. Because of Maeglin. Maeglin, whom he now would not even dare look upon, so convinced was he that any bond between their blood was forbidden. He and Elrond had spoken gently to the boy’s inconsolable parents, and praised the bravery of the fallen. The unhappy couple would sail west next spring, so that they might be there in the undying lands to receive their only son when he emerged from the Halls of Mandos. All through the conversation, Glorfindel had been sickened at his own hypocrisy, had loathed himself for the feeling that this pure-hearted child was a rival now out of the way. That if he could not have her, he wanted no one else to.

He swallowed another mouthful of wine.

What he did not expect was the prickling on his skin which told him, without his turning, that she had climbed the tower and was now standing behind him in the room.

“Why are you here?” he asked, still gazing out the window, after she had stood there a while, saying nothing. His voice, usually so musical and expressive, was dead, without inflection. She took in two empty crystal flagons of wine on the floor near the window, a third, almost empty, balanced on the sill where he sat. His cup was in his hand.

“I saw you here as I came from the smithy. A word with you, _hîr nin_ , if you please.”

He drank from his cup. “Speak.”

He felt her take a step forward and said in a hard voice, “Come no closer.” He was fairly drunk. He had started before dinner, carried all the way through, and he had no idea by now how much he had ingested. He did not trust himself with her.

Maeglin had seen him close to drunk in Gondolin once before, those long winter evenings when the lords would gather in the central keep and drink into the night. Contrary to all expectation, the more Glorfindel drank, the quieter and stiller he had become. He would drape himself over a chair and stare dreamily into the fire, lost somewhere deep within himself, while around him Salgant became maudlin, Egalmoth and Duilin cracked silly jokes and laughed hysterically, Ecthelion indulged in philosophical and metaphysical musings on time and space, and Rog began to trash furniture. Maeglin never got drunk. He would watch. And listen. And study each of them as he would a book.

She now ignored Glorfindel and took another soundless step towards him.

_“No closer!”_

She stepped back, chastened, her heart beating faster.

With unhurried, languorous grace, he turned to look at her, still sitting in the window, one leg drawn up, the other still dangling outside over a hundred foot drop. He gazed at her, unsmiling and stern, his bright, almost fevered eyes dark as violets. He had never reminded her more of a dangerous, beautiful, powerful lion than he did now, with his golden mane mussed in the sharp autumn breeze, and his eyes glowering at her with flickers of fire. She stood five paces away from him, cool and calm without, but her insides churning with nervousness and desire.

“What do you want?”

“To fight in the guard.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Why?”

She did not entirely know why. Because the smithy was not enough. Because she suddenly wanted to live for more than her own self and her craft. Though she would not admit it to herself, because she could be nearer him in the guard. But all she said, her face impassive and her voice as flat as his, was, “The dark creatures increase. Your guards lose a few to the west each year. You could do with one more.”

He frowned incredulously at her. “You expect me to believe that _you_ would leave your precious smithy to join the guard?”

“Not leave the smithy. I know your auxiliaries train twice a week and patrol once a week. Camaen can spare me.”

He did not reply. Glittering high above the crystal dome above, Wilwarin the butterfly flew across the heavens, pursued by Tuilinn the Swallow. Feeling unnerved, Maeglin actually found herself wishing that the sweet, happy Glorfindel of yore would make a return.

“I can fight. You know I can.”

After a beat, he said, “Yes, you can. But you will need _much_ training before you can go out with a patrol.”

“Of course. When shall I begin?”

He was silent for a while, then said, “Tomorrow. Weapons room in the basement. Five in the evening.”

“Five?”

“That way it will interfere less with your work at the smithy. Or would you be too tired?”

“No. That would be fine. _Le hannon, hîr nin.”_ She hesitated a moment, then bowed and left.

Glorfindel poured himself another cup of wine, and continued to gaze into the night.

 

An autumn night. The prince of Gondolin stood on a frosty garden terrace, his mind and heart a perfect storm of shame and rage and lust. In his path, between him and his desire, stood the Lord of the Golden Flower, the object of his hate. The elflord’s golden hair streamed in the autumn wind. His violet eyes were brilliant as stars under his dark eyelashes, and his beautiful face was grave.

The elflord walked towards the prince.

His heart suddenly pounding with terror, the prince drew his sword but found himself powerless to raise it.

Found himself caught in the strong arms of the elflord, bent backward, and kissed, the sword dropping useless from his hand.

And as the golden-haired elflord made love to him, the prince could no longer tell whether he was man or maiden, whether he loathed or lusted, whether he hated or loved...

 

Maeglin sighed and stretched languorously as she woke...

 _Nae.._. It had only been a dream.

 

* * *

 

Glossary

Naugwen (S) – naug = dwarfed/stunted, wen = lass/maiden/girl. Basically, “shorty”, or “dwarf-maid”.

Estenguil (S) – “estent” = very short, “cuil” = life. Originally, I wrote “estencuil”, but after consulting _dreamingfifi_ on _realelvish.proboards.com_ , I learned it should be “Cuilesten” (Third Age Sindarin) or “Estenguil” (archaic Sindarin). I opted for the latter since Maeglin’s Sindarin is rooted in the First Age, and because she would have wanted a name that echoes “Estel”.

Á pusta (Q)  – stop

Melda tár (Q) – beloved king

Melin sé (Q) – I love her (or him)

Huil (S) – bitch

Nae (S) - alas


	15. Playing With Fire

Had he been completely out of his mind?

Waking with a badly throbbing head, Glorfindel stared at the graceful carvings of foliage and flowers that ornamented the pale stone of his bedchamber ceiling. It was already an hour past the time he usually awoke, and the first thing that had hit him like an avalanche in the Hithaeglir was the magnitude of his folly.

_Go to the smithy right now—tell her you have thought the better of it—tell her to join the warriors for training in the mornings. Camaen would understand._

There were any number of reasons he could give her for this. Warriors fight as a unit, and train as a unit. Her fundamentals were there, and any of the captains could give her the one-to-one training she would need to hone her basic skills. He did not have to do it himself. Should not do it himself. Should stay as far from her as he could.

Suddenly remembering with a groan that he was supposed to lead out the morning patrol, he hastily washed, scrambled into his battle gear, climbed down two floors from his window and dashed to the stables. Just in time.

He would go to the smithy to speak to Maeglin later. Or better still, simply send a message.

The hours of the day flew past, he knew not where. Before he knew it, the time approached. As light faded in the west, he headed down to the basement to prepare the room.

Just one session.

At the end of it, he would tell her she was ready. She would join the warriors from the following week.

 

The white stone steps down into the structures under the house were shadowed and winding. Maeglin had descended them a few times before to go to the storage chambers to sift through discarded clothes to add to her wardrobe. There were tales of secret passageways made in preparation for war in the Second Age, though ultimately war had not come to the valley. The dark stone passages had a dwarven feel, save for the elvish carvings and slender, flowing lines of the supporting columns and buttresses. The elvish lamps along the corridors glowed without flame or heat, lighting up as she drew near, fading as she passed.

She did not know what to expect. Training in the basement at sunset. How strange. No training sessions that she knew of took place in the basement. And no training sessions that she had heard of took place that late in the day. Something fluttered in her belly as she made her way deeper into the basement than she had ever been before. Nervousness. And excitement.

Glorfindel was alone, pacing up and down a wide corridor. He opened a tall wooden door as she approached, and she stepped in after him. A long training room with a high ceiling. There were stained glass windows very high in one long wall, and already the late autumn light had faded in them, and she saw frost on the panes. Three lamps sat in brackets on the opposite wall. Several sword training dummies stood in a corner. Against the wall next to the entrance were weapons racks on which an array of practice swords, lances, javelins, quarterstaffs and axes were displayed.

And it was empty. Not another soul in sight except for the two of them. Her black eyes glittered as she stole a curious glance at him, but he was not looking at her. He walked straight to a rack to pick out a practice sword of suitable weight for her size. Struggling to think of anything else, he could think of nothing else but that he had broken the rule—his rule for eight years, ever since that night he had barged into her room with his sword drawn—the rule that he should not let himself be alone with her. Ever. Especially not now, given the likelihood that they were first cousins. He had not been stupid enough to put himself in temptation’s path. Until now.

She slowly walked up and stood near him as he reached for a sword. Despite Estel’s nickname and Camaen’s insistence on calling her “little lass”, she was hardly little any more. She was almost as tall as her mother, and the top of her head just cleared his chin. Weighing the sword in his hand, all he could think of was how easy it would be to just reach out and pull her to him and—

“Try this one. It has good reach,” he said casually, passing her the sword.

She gave it a swing. “Nicely balanced.” She looked around the room. “I have never been to this part of the house before,” she said. “I did not even realize it existed.” Their voices echoed off the bare stone walls.

“We don’t use it often,” was all he replied. Truth was that it had not been opened since the days of the Last Alliance, and he had Erestor to thank for having it so hermetically sealed that it was not coated in a thick layer of dust. He opened a chest and handed her a chainmail hauberk and a padded tunic to go under it. “Get used to the weight. Leather is pretty, but useless.”

She was of the same opinion, but she eyed the hauberk and tunic for a moment before slipping them over her head, the padding first, then, with some difficulty because of the weight, the chainmail.

If he was putting her in these, seduction was very obviously not the plan for the evening.

So. He had brought her down into the bowels of Imladris house, alone, at five in the evening, to a room no one used, where no one could hear her if she screamed her lungs out, and all he wanted to do was teach her swordplay? _Swordplay. . ._

 _Not that, fool. Real swords._ _Are you not relieved? What did you hope he had in mind?_

“A little long, is it not?” she said, as she secured her hair at the back of her head with a clip. The hauberk almost reached her knees, the sleeves went past her elbows.

“All the better for protection,” he said, his manner brisk and businesslike. “There are slits at the sides. It won’t hamper your movement. Right. Position—floor centre, if you please.” And he walked away from her, and leaned casually against the far wall with his arms folded. And began putting her through a drill—firing a sequence of commands at her. As though she was already one of his guard, and he expected her to know.

 

Another training room in another time, summer sunlight pouring in through tall windows onto white flagstones.  The Lord of the Golden Flower took his pupil through his paces, and smiled approvingly. “That was a neat bit of footwork, my prince. But watch your guard—you tend to leave yourself wide open, especially on your left. What’s the point of having a devastating attack if you leave one hole in your defence and get slaughtered ten minutes into battle?”

“Is not offensive the best form of defence?”

“By all means, use your opponent’s attack to your advantage and parry with a counter-attack. But I’m talking about how your fury blinds you. You will seldom face just one foe on the field—you can afford no blind spots.” With a lightning-swift attack that made Maeglin feel he was up against three men at once, Glorfindel demonstrated how quickly, and with what careless ease he could disarm the prince and hold the point of his sword to Maeglin’s throat. “Bam! You’re dead, and you did not even see it coming. Too reckless, my prince. Too much anger.”

And sometimes he had a disarming ability to mind-read: “If you are thinking of Lord Rauco, it is true that Rauco pours all his wild fury and his demons into his fighting. But he knows what is happening around him at all times. And do not be deceived—he is very much in control. A good model for you. I should ask him to join us for some sessions.”

Maeglin soon discovered how deceptive Glorfindel’s apparent casualness was. He was on razor-sharp alert every moment, and he seemed to have eyes at the back of his head. Yet he always appeared relaxed and unhurried. When he sparred, he had both speed and strength, and yet also a breathtaking grace and elegance that made the fight look like a dance more than a duel.

“You waste so much of your strength. If you have a good elven sword, rely on speed and precision more than brute force. Strategize every moment. None of that wild swinging like an enraged orc with a blunt battle ax.” He mimed with hilarious effect the unrestrained hacking strokes of a cross-eyed heavy-set orc, and burst into a musical peal of laughter. It even got a smile out of Maeglin, even if just for the briefest moment.

“That looked rather like Lord Salgant.”

Glorfindel looked a little guilty. “Of course not!” he said in a severe voice. “Lord Salgant does not squint.” But there was an impish gleam in his blue eyes as he spoke.

Aside from Maeglin’s jealousy of Glorfindel’s relationship with Idril, an endless list of things about his golden-haired tutor irked the prince. His radiant smile. His fabulous hair. His admirers, who at times gathered at the viewing gallery above the sparring room to watch the lesson and toss flowers to him. His easy laughter. His annoying optimism about everything, and his tendency to burst into song even during lessons. One would think, Maeglin thought sourly, that the elflord had never had a bad day in his life. The lord of light and sweetness and joy.

Then there had been the summer morning his tutor had suddenly exclaimed, halfway through training, “Such a beautiful day! We can train tomorrow. Come, _cundunya_ , let’s go swimming!”

And they had ridden out to a waterfall some distance from the city, and done just that.

How frivolous.

 

Maeglin wondered how this Glorfindel who faced her in the basement could be the same person who had been her tutor for those first ten years in Gondolin. The changes wrought by six thousand years. His beautiful face was stern and almost as unsmiling as the prince of Gondolin’s. He was a hard taskmaster, demanding and critical, and his sharp eyes did not miss a single slip in form. Underhand thrust right hand, twenty times. Underhand thrust left hand, twenty times. _Watch your footwork placement._ Overhand thrust now, twenty each hand. . . Two-handed thrust, five times. . . Repeat _. I told you—watch your footwork! Your footwork! Keep your point up!_ Repeat.

Maeglin found her cheeks burning with anger at a sharp reprimand. _Point up! How many times must I say it?_ Felt resentment at being forced through her paces again, and again, and again.

But she also respected it.

One hour practising thrusts. One hour practising blocks. Then it was over.

As he ended the session, he said casually, “Next week, same time?”

And she replied, “Yes.”

 

They met the next week. And the week after. And the week after.

It became their secret. Neither of them breathed a word of these weekly sessions to anyone. They barely acknowledged each other outside of the basement. He still kept away from the smithy. At dinner, they pretended not to look at each other and sat at the far ends of the table from each other.

And both avoided thinking too deeply about why they were doing this, avoided facing the confused tangle of emotions and intentions that brought them each week at sunset to the stone steps, and that made them glance about to make sure that none observed them before they made the descent.

The first two lessons, he stood at the wall and barked commands at her, taking her through interminable drills of thrusts and cuts and blocks, then combinations of all three. As the first snows of winter fell, when she had completed an hour of drills, he took another practice sword and moved to the centre of the floor with her. And they sparred. As they crossed blades she could feel him reining in his strength. And as their blades crossed, they were brought repeatedly into giddy closeness. They never engaged in idle chatter. They hardly spoke. There was only the sound of their breathing, the soft scuffle of footwork over flagstones, the ringing of metal on metal, and the occasional sharp word of correction or reprimand from him.

He pushed her to near exhaustion, each session. Her muscles ached fiercely, the first month. He was unrelentingly exacting, picking on the smallest fault. And yet, somewhere along the way, she ceased to resent him for it. Although she would have died rather than admit it, she began to revere him for it.

As she trained, she grew even stronger. The agility, speed and muscle-memory of old came back. Not knowing his motives, his intent, made each descent down the stone steps to the basement strangely thrilling. Every week, the air between them was highly charged. Her skin prickled always with a sense of how dangerous he could be, how much power he had, and how tightly he leashed it. It was intoxicating.

With them in the room were always the ghosts of their past selves: the black-haired prince and his golden-haired tutor. The memories and voices of old whispered around the room, Glorfindel recalling the scowls and sullenness of the prince to contain his desire, Maeglin discovering that memories of what had once repelled, now drew her: a laughing toss of a golden head; a swift, golden blur of movement, a feint, a lunge, a blade flying across the room, and deep blue eyes sparkling bright and warm with laughter over a sword point held at the prince’s throat. . .

And other memories. As they advanced and retreated, parried and thrust across the stone floor, Maeglin frowned at times in concentration, struggling against wild and distracting thoughts in her mind.

_“. . .your father has his—moments,” Aredhel said to young Maeglin as she reclined on her seat. She had drunk too much. The bruise on her cheekbone had swelled and darkened. As had her eye. But she was smiling, a cat-like secret smile that made Maeglin uneasy. She poured herself another cup of wine. “My first sight of him was. . .electrifying. He was wild, and dark, and dangerous. The most beautiful man I had ever seen.”_

_“Ammë,” young Maeglin protested, appalled, really not wanting to hear. “Go to bed and rest. Please.”_

Maeglin held her blade before her with both hands, and warily edged away from him, waiting for his attack. Her eyes moved over his shoulders, his torso, his legs.

They crossed swords, steel locked on steel. Maeglin thought of how easily he could send that sword flying if he wished. Pull her to the floor and have his way with her.

_“I wanted him as much as he wanted me, but I fought him. I wanted his brute strength. His darkness. His forcefulness.” Aredhel’s voice was a little slurred, but her silver-grey eyes glinted wickedly. “I did not fear him.”_

What would Maeglin do if he did? Would she fight? Would she scream?

_“One day you will feel it.”_

Or did she want him to? To know how it would feel?

_“One day you will understand.”_

It was simple lust she felt. Definitely not love. A shallow kind of animal attraction, a kind of fascination. No more. It was not a distinction that any of the Eldar would have made. In a purely Avarin way, she toyed with the idea of a casual liaison. It would mean nothing to her. _He_ meant nothing to her. At moments she saw a look in his eyes that she could not mistake: he wanted her still. She almost smiled, gratified. But, of course, she would do nothing. Of course, nothing was going to happen. Each week, they sparred, and nothing happened.

But she still thought about it.

As the days shortened, they both willingly extended the lesson beyond two hours. At times, they would enter the dining hall late for dinner, always taking care to do so separately, their hair still damp from their baths, their cheeks flushed and eyes averted from each other.

Now, when dressing for dinner, she might don one of the dresses passed to her by Arwen that she had previously disdained to wear. She would smooth her hair in the mirror carefully, and arrange the bodice to show a little extra cleavage before she left her room. And then not look at him once throughout the meal.

 

Glorfindel went each week down to the basement like one who raises poison to his lips and drinks it knowingly.

He always dismissed her and asked her to leave first, even though they would be taking the same way back to their chambers. He did not want anyone to see them leave this place together. But also, he wanted time alone to recover from the agony of what he had endured those few hours, struggling to protect her from himself.

Each week, he told himself it would be the last session. He would end this intolerable stupidity. All he had to do was to say it. “From next week you will train with the guards.” He would rehearse the words in his head even during the lesson. He would end it this time. Of a certainty he would.

And each week his heart swelled with pride to see his student grow stronger and more skilled. For two to three precious hours, he would gaze on the lovely face whose every delicate feature he adored. He imagined that the fierceness in the long black eyes at times grew softer, were not quite so indifferent or disdainful in their gaze. It did not matter that she always reported to him in her work raiment—a shapeless boy’s tunic cinched at the waist, and leggings, and boots. Estel’s hand-me-downs, most of them, passed to her when he outgrew them. It did not matter that over all this she wore a padded tunic and chainmail hauberk that completely obscured anything feminine in her form. She never failed to entrance him, and he never failed to desire her still.  In his blood, the heat rose as the minutes flew by. He held back, trying not to think how easy it would be to send her sword flying, push her against the cold stones on the wall, and take her right there, hauberk or no hauberk.

At the end of every session he said the same words:

“See you next week.”

 

Weeks became months. Yestarë came and went. Their sparring had gone to a new level, become more intense, more intricate. Between them were the blades. And the hauberks. She had reason to be glad for the damned chainmail now, as he repeatedly broke through her guard. Even though he kept his strength tightly reined, she had bruises to show after the sessions.

Her eyes narrowed, golden fire flickering at the challenge of seeking to break through his defence, her face set and determined.

_Complacency will be the dolt’s undoing._

But treacherously, her thoughts began to wander. 

_The prince watched sullenly as his tutor took off his tunic for a session of unarmed combat._

_“You can leave your shirt on if you wish, my prince, but I guarantee you that your fine linen will get crumpled or torn,” said Glorfindel._

_“The mere thought of wrestling with a foul, stinking orc or a balrog. . .” said the prince, grimacing with distaste as he removed his shirt._

_“Lose your weapon in a battle, you’d have no choice. If it would keep you alive a minute, even a few seconds longer, give you a chance to hurt or disarm your enemy, to get a weapon into your hand again, you would not think twice. All right. You have a weapon, I don’t. Come at me with it, that’s right.”_

_The next moment, the prince found himself lying on the mat, stunned, his head locked in the crook of Glorfindel’s elbow, and so wedged against the elflord’s body he could barely move. “And I have your sword,” said the Lord of the Golden Flower in his infuriatingly pleasant voice. “Right. Let me show you how to get out of this.”_

Maeglin’s wandering thoughts imagined getting rid of the swords and the wretched hauberk and the shirt again. . . She remembered the feel of the muscles of his chest and shoulders and torso. The feel of bare flesh against flesh. His skin. His scent. The hardness of his thighs. She looked at his lips and wondered how they would feel. If they would be as warm and soft as they looked. As Idril’s had been. How they would taste. . .

He sent her blade flying. It landed with a clatter on the hard stones, echoing.

She saw his eyes upon her, burning.

He took a step towards her.

She waited, heart racing, not breathing.

He went to where her sword lay, flipped it over to her using his blade, and said with a stern frown, “Concentrate.”

 

As spring came and the niphredil began to bloom, she finally asked the question he had dreaded.

“When can I go out with the guards?” she said as they sparred.

“You are not ready.”

“But I think I already fight as well as some of them.” A pretence at modesty. She knew she was as good as many of them by now.

_“I said, you are not ready!”_

And with white fire flashing in his eyes, he crossed blades with her so fiercely that she was shocked, driven backwards, pushed back against the wall, the breath knocked out of her as her back hit the hard, cold stone. Over the locked blades their faces were very close. Their eyes met and she saw the wildness in his.

Maeglin’s heart was hammering, but not from fear. _He is going to kiss me or kill me_ , she thought. She was lightheaded from the strange ecstasy of excitement in her blood. They could feel the heat radiating from the other’s body. They were both holding their breaths as they looked into each other’s eyes. And at each other’s lips.

After what felt like an eternity, he backed off.

“Had I been an orc, you would be dead,” he said rather curtly. “You fail to realize how easy I have been on you.”

“Don’t be then! Train me for real. Stop treating me like—like a weak maiden!” she snapped at him, her pride stung.

“That is enough for today,” he said quietly.

Dazed with what felt like disappointment, she put away her sword. As she left, he said, not looking at her, “See you next week.”

 

Mid-spring.

Estel was glowing with triumph when he returned from his outing with Glorfindel. He ran to greet his adopted brothers outside the smithy as they prepared their gear for an orc hunt.

“ _I got him!”_ he exulted, still in his mud-stained clothes and boots. “I tracked down the great Glorfindel! Six days in the Coldfells, over steepest hills and fetid fen, through valleys and deep woods and rushing streams and some very thorny thickets—I lost his trail a couple of times, but finally—I cornered him in a cave!”

Elladan and Elrohir looked at each other. They, too, had played that game with Glorfindel many times when they were young, tracking each other down through the wilderness in all seasons.

“And when I said it was my turn, _he backed out!_ He said we needed to head right back home, he would track me the next time. He must be reeling from shock at having been caught, finally—and in only six days! Is it not amazing?”

“Amazing indeed,” agreed Elrohir.

“If you found Glorfindel, Estel—there is no gentle way to say this—” Elladan began delicately, “—He most likely allowed you to,” Elrohir finished off bluntly.

Estel looked disgruntled. “Are you sure you are not simply jealous because you two never caught him? Not once?” It was true. Whenever the twins had attempted to track Glorfindel, he had normally emerged after about a month with a dazzling smile and said, “All right, I’m tired of this! Are we all ready for good meals and good beds? Let’s go home!”

Elrohir bristled. “Glorfindel was playing this game with Oromë the Hunter in Valinor for _centuries_ , Estel—millennia before you were a gleam in your mother’s eye!”

“It is highly unlikely he is going to be tracked down by any nineteen-year-old, even you,” said Elladan, “unless he is badly wounded or _wants_ to be found.”

“ _Or_ he is losing it and starting to make mistakes?” asked Elrohir thoughtfully.

“He has not been himself for a while,” concurred Elladan.

Estel looked at his brothers in exasperation. “What utter rot! Why would he let me find him?”

“That’s the thing. We don’t know. . .” Elladan frowned.

“Why should it be inconceivable that I am simply very good at this? Glorfindel says I am a natural! He says I have all the makings of a great Ranger.”

“You do.” “But _some day_ , Estel.” “Not now.” “Not yet.”

Estel looked considerably deflated. “My thanks, brothers, for the faith in me you show.” And he strode away.

“ _Estel!”_ “We’re sorry.” “We have faith in you, little brother.”

As Estel moodily made his way to his chambers, he crossed paths with his father in the Hall of Portraits. As Tuor and Idril smiled down on them on one side, and Beren and Lúthien gazed into each other’s eyes on the other, Estel told his father about his feat.

Elrond smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well done _, Ion-nín!_ We shall have to be gentle with Glorfindel. His ego must be quite shattered.”

After Estel had left, the Lord of Imladris stood frowning beneath a portrait of Turgon. Then he descended the Great Stairs, and went in search of his Commander. The sun was sinking over the western hills. He spotted Glorfindel leaving the training rooms, having just dismissed his captains after a brief conference with them. The golden warrior disappeared down a flight of stairs to the basement. Just after that, before Elrond could head towards the steps himself, the lovely maiden Lómiel, apprentice to the smith, came running and disappeared down the steps as well.

Elrond, astonished, tried not to jump to conclusions and failed.

Just what would he do if he went down those steps and found his friend in a compromising position with an underaged elfmaid?

He descended the steps. There was no one in sight as he scanned the dim corridors stretching out before him.

 

Maeglin had not seen Glorfindel at all for a week, and something within her sang as she made her way to the training room. Her eyes widened as she opened the door and saw that Glorfindel had taken a suit of plate armour out from storage and had it waiting for her.

“Put this on,” he said, as she closed the door behind her.

Her lip curled with scorn. As elven armour goes, it was a fair and well-made suit—but it was a poor alloy and a clumsy design compared to those she had once crafted. And she did not fancy spending her two hours alone with him completely encased in steel, when the hauberk was exasperation enough.

“No.”

Her mouth set in a stubborn line he was all too familiar with. But this was the first time Lómiel had ever disobeyed him as his pupil. His eyebrow went up, and his eyes glinted angrily.

“Wearing mail was to build your strength as you bore the weight. Plate affords better mobility, better protection, better comfort. Its weight is distributed better, and will feel lighter.” _You know all this!—you always preferred plate armour, back in Gondolin!_ “In fact, for the best protection, you would wear _both_ —the plate over the mail.”

“I will wear plate once I have made my own.”

Oh, the sheer, infuriating arrogance of this prince, thought Glorfindel in exasperation and love. “And when will that be? You want to ride out with the patrols? You will do it in plate.” Choice of armour was usually left to the individual warrior. Since Arasdil’s death, however, Glorfindel and the captains had decided that wearing plate should be mandatory. “And you need to practice in it. _Now_.”

“We only have two and a half hours. I have no wish to waste time putting on and removing plate.”

“We could have more time than that. We could miss dinner. I am willing, if you are.”

“If you want me in plate,” she said in measured tones, folding her arms across her chest, “you will have to put me in it.” As the words left her mouth, she could hardly believe she had said them. Their eyes, blue and black, were both flickering with angry flame by now. They were also both incredibly aroused.

“As you wish,” he said, moving forward, looking like a lion about to spring on its prey.

She turned and ran.

 

Elrond was walking past the storage rooms when his keen elven ears heard the faintest of voices somewhere ahead. He headed swiftly in their direction, and had just discerned which of the heavy wooden doors along the corridor they came from when he heard a great crash. Running to the door, he flung it open.

A wooden rack lay across the floor of the training room, its weapons scattered. And in its midst, two figures were struggling together in a tangle of long limbs and golden and black hair. In the second after the door flew open, Glorfindel had scrambled to his feet and pulled Maeglin up as well, and in the next second he had put the breadth of the room between the two of them. Guilt and shame was written all over his fair face as he blushed a fiery red. 

“This isn’t how it looks! I can explain!”

Lómiel, looking just as guilty, said nothing.

Elrond looked from Glorfindel to Lómiel and back again.

“In my study, please, Lord Glorfindel.”

 

In his study, Elrond stared at his Commander as though the golden-haired warrior had completely lost his mind.

“So let me get this clear. You are telling me that the man who tried to kill my father and grandfather is in my house, in the guise of an elfmaid, and you are _giving him deadly weapons and training him to kill_?”

“It sounds terrible when you put it that way. Except _she_ is not a _him_ anymore—she is merely a young maiden. As such, she needs training to protect herself,” said Glorfindel, his fingers twisting the ends of the golden locks which lay in his lap—as he did only when he was very nervous, which was hardly ever. The last time had been when Ecthelion had hauled him up before Turgon for causing chaos in the marketplace of Vinyamar. He had made friends with a little lamb that was for sale and had accidentally set free an entire pen of sheep trying to rescue it. He had been twenty-two.

“From what I heard of the orc skirmish seven years back, she is fairly proficient in that. But if she needed any training, why in Eä would you train her _yourself_? _Alone_? And not with the rest of your guard? Or with your cadets?”

“First of all, it’s the wrong time of the year for a new cadet to join—the captains are too busy with the Rangers presently—and the cadets—absolute fools, the way they slobber over her, I won’t have it—she would be a major distraction to them—besides, she has the basic grounding so she doesn’t qualify as a cadet—she doesn’t belong with them, and they would annoy her terribly. Thus, it should be evident that training her myself was the only option.”

Elrond blinked at the golden elf at the end of this piece of senselessness. “She would have to fight alongside them if she joins the patrols, you do realize.”

“Oh, of course! But that’s an entirely different matter.”

“Mm-hmm.” Elrond gave Glorfindel a withering look, but let it pass. “Why the basement? All of the usual training rooms are available in the evening.”

“No distractions.”

“Why keep it a secret? Every week for _five months_ , and neither of you breathed a _word_ of it to anyone.”

Innocent surprise. “Really? I guess it simply never came up in conversation.”

Elrond glared at the golden-haired hero. “For _eight years_ you suspected her to be a traitor of olden days, an enemy to my family, to my line. A grave suspicion indeed. Why did you never come to me with it?”

“Since you do not believe me right now, it must be obvious how absurd, how ridiculous it would have sounded if I had mentioned it to you. I needed to make sure of it myself first, or be a laughing stock. But by the time I was certain, I could also discern that she was no danger to any. Yes, she may be moody, and temperamental, and difficult. But in spite of that, look how well she gets along with Camaen, with your sons? She is a jewel in the rough. Even Erestor gets along with her. _You_ certainly have not observed anything to give you cause for fears, have you?”

“And why is your training with her so important to you? So important, that you would allow Estel to track you down?” asked Elrond slowly. “So important that you needed to make it back to Imladris in time, and not miss even one of your regular sessions with her?”

Glorfindel was silent as Elrond’s eyes drilled into him.

“Five months is plenty of training for her. Are you sending her out on patrols soon?”

“Oh no,” said Glorfindel, shaking his golden head emphatically, “No, no—she needs far more preparation before she goes out. She’s not ready yet.”

“I heard Beril and Emlindir’s account of her fighting skills, Glorfindel! She is no beginner. She is already a warrior. And you are telling me that after five months of your special attention, she is not as good as any in the guard?”

“She’s reckless, Elrond! She will get herself killed. She got herself killed once by your grandfather—I’m not letting anything like that happen to her again!”

The Lord of Imladris stared at the stalwart defender of his family line. “I never thought I would see the day you are so besotted with a maiden that your brains get scrambled.”

“Besotted? Me?” sputtered Glorfindel, turning a rather fetching shade of tomato red. “What do you take me for? She is an _underaged babe_ , for Eru’s sake! Absolute rubbish! And this is _Maeglin Lómion_. We might be first cousins. He _hates_ me. We _never_ got along. We absolutely _detest_ each other.”

Elrond looked at his friend with a perplexed frown and said nothing for a while. “How long has it been like this?”

Giving up all pretence, Glorfindel sank back in his chair and looked down at his hands. “Eight years.”

Elrond looked at the golden-haired warrior for a while. Then he sat down at his desk, pulled paper to himself and began to write.

At the sound of scribbling, Glorfindel lifted his head.

“You are going away,” said Elrond firmly. “First, to Lothlorien, bearing gifts for Arwen and the Lady Galadriel.”

“Elladan and Elrohir were to go there after hunting orcs in the Hithaeglir! They were looking forward to it.”

“I have other things for them to do.” Such as taking over the command of the guards for a year, he thought. “And you need to have a long rest.”

“A long rest—Lord Elrond—that is the _worst_ thing that you could possibly do to me. I _cannot_ just recline on banks of elanor watching the mellyrn bloom. I need to be _busy_. I need to _work_ —“

“Oh, do not worry. You shall work.” Elrond rolled up the slip of paper, went to the window, and sent it off tied to the leg of a winged messenger. Sitting down again, Elrond continued writing. “You will be in Lorien about three months,” he said. “At the end of summer you will depart for Mirkwood and Dale to offer your expertise in a revamp of their defences.”

“Elrond— _no_! Please. I cannot be away from here for so long,” pleaded the warrior. “I _cannot_. Estel needs me. The guards need me. I have to be here!”

“I shall have all that taken care of. Mirkwood and Dale are long overdue. They have been requesting this for some time now, and you have been pushing it off, and now I know why. You will get there by mid-autumn, which will necessitate your wintering in Mirkwood. You may return to Imladris in late spring.” He sent off another bird. “There. All settled.”

“Winter in Mirkwood with Thranduil. Why don’t you just kill me right now.”

“Enjoy the Dorwinion wine. Kill a few spiders if you get bored. Visit the dwarves at Erebor to annoy them a little—or tell them your balrog story. For some reason, the dwarves always seem to enjoy that.” Elrond smiled at the warrior, whose blue eyes were huge and tragic in his stricken face. “As your lord, your friend, and your physician, I am telling you—go away. Take time to sort things out. Have a chat with Lady Galadriel. Rest. You will come back with a better perspective on things.” He picked up his pen again. “Well, you’d better start packing. You leave tomorrow.”

Glorfindel rose slowly to his feet in a daze, and made his way to the door.

“Oh, and I would not drink too much of Thranduil’s Dorwinion if I were you,” said Elrond as he wrote. “In your state, you are likely to find yourself uttering things that you are likely to deeply regret.”

 

* * *

_Glossary_

_Cundunya (Q) – my prince_


	16. A Question Answered

On the bank of a stream that fed the Celebrant sat Glorfindel under a blossoming mallorn tree. Surrounded by a carpet of fallen mallorn leaves whose golden glow was eclipsed by the glory of his hair, he leaned his chin on his hand. And stared glumly into space.

He had been in Lothlórien for three days now. The Galadhrim had never seen him miserable before, so they did their utmost to cheer him up. If Haldir was not trying to get him to go hunting, or Arwen pulling him on picnics or to dance with her at feasts, or Lady Galadriel getting him to dine with her and Lord Celeborn, it was elfmaids leaping out at him from behind every other tree, or trying to cuddle up to him on his _talan_ at night in various states of undress. That was always the problem with Lothlórien: no doors to lock. There had been the line-up of his usual, persistent admirers, and then some.

He was beginning to wonder exactly what Elrond had written in that note to Lady Galadriel.

_Overworked… losing his mind… affair of the heart… very bad business… strict rest cure prescribed… needs relaxation and distraction… plenty of nubile elfmaids…_

The mere thought of it made him cringe.

He had taken refuge in a quiet, shady grove far from Caras Galadhon. No one would think of looking for him here. No one, that is, except for the Lady of the Golden Woods.

She had never seen her balrog-slaying favourite mope before, and after three days, she had had enough of it.  He sensed her approach some time before she appeared, a luminous apparition of white and gold in the green shadows, but he made no attempt to hide. This was Lady Galadriel, after all, and any attempt at evasion would have been futile. He rose and bowed to her.

She stood on the other side of the stream and regarded him with her piercing grey eyes. “ _Pitya_ , what ails you? You have not been yourself at all,” she said in Quenya, going straight to the point. Somewhere in the latter part of the Second Age, she had taken to calling him _pitya_ when they were alone—the only one in all Arda besides Idril who called the reborn warrior “little one”. It was her little private joke with him; few among the Eldar who remained in Ennor were taller than she, and he was one. She enjoyed speaking to him in Quenya. It made her recall her youth, she told him with a smile.

He looked at her wordlessly and wretchedly for a while. “ _Herinya_ , may I ask you a question?”

She looked into his face thoughtfully. They heard fair elven voices in the distance, approaching through the woods.

“Walk with me, _pitya_.”

He crossed the stream and gallantly offered her his arm. As the lady and the warrior walked along a narrow path beneath the ancient mellyrn, the vision of their combined beauty was dazzling. Both wore shining white, and the resplendence of their golden hair shimmered in the shade of the vast, overarching trees. Any who saw them might think them mother and son, or sister and brother.

The moment Glorfindel had met her at Ost-in-Edhil in Eregion, one twilight in the Second Age, he had looked at her long flowing golden hair, so like his own, and wondered. It was even more radiant and lustrous than his, and wavier in texture, but it was that same rare, rich shade of gold that he had thought unique to himself, never having seen it on another. And her face. He seemed to know it, as from a distant dream. And to have heard that low, mellifluous voice.

As the golden-haired envoy from Forlindon had delivered messages from his king and sat in meetings with the rulers of Eregion, one question had burned in his heart. Staring at the mysteriously-familiar lady, it had been a struggle for him at moments to focus on the discussions. _. .increase in the creatures of Morgoth. . .attacks on travellers by trolls and wargs. . .patrols needed on highways. . .be wary of a personage named Annatar. . ._

Over the next two centuries of dealings with Eregion, Glorfindel had many opportunities to speak to the Lady since Elrond, if he accompanied Glorfindel to Ost-in-Edhil, oft abandoned his golden-haired friend for the charms of a silver-haired maiden. But whenever the question lay on the balrog slayer’s tongue, one look into the Lady’s shining grey eyes would cause it to evaporate. And only after he was home again in Forlond might he think of it again.

Then he ceased to think or care about the question. Darkness rose. War came. The kings of men passed in quick succession. Kingdoms rose and fell. Millennia passed. . .

And now, this moment.

She led him through the golden wood to another secluded spot, then seated herself on a carved wooden bench by the rushing waters of another stream. Glorfindel leaned against a mallorn trunk nearby. Her grey eyes looked into his blue ones, and she waited for him to speak, a gentle smile playing on her lips.

 “Lady Alatáriel,” he said, using her Telerin name, which flowed more naturally when they spoke Quenya, “why do I feel that you know what I am going to say before I say it?”

“Ask freely, Lord Laurefindil. I shall answer you.”

He paused, looking into the infinite depths of those grey eyes. And finally, after six millennia, the question came.

“ _Herinya_ , do you know who I really am? Where I come from?”

She tilted her head and her brilliant, enigmatic gaze held him.

“You have not thought of it for thousands of years. Why now?” she asked in measured tones.

He was silent, and let her take his answer from his eyes.

She smiled and her eyes laughed. “You must introduce me to her sometime.”

He blushed and dropped his gaze.

“It may not be as hopeless as you believe. Your deeds speak far louder than any bloodline does. Who you are, Laurefindil, has proven to be worthy of your parents and their lineage.”

His heart pounded with nervousness and excitement. She knew. As he had always suspected—she _knew_. And. . .might it be she? And Celeborn his sire?

 “She cares naught for my deeds nor my lineage,” he said. “Truth is, she cares not for me at all.” It wrenched deeply just to say it. “But it is for myself that I ask. I need to know.” The fearless warrior braced himself, his stomach churning with both dread and anticipation, fear and hope, as it had never done before any battle. “You know my parents, Lady Alatáriel—please, who are they?”

Moving the folds of her flowing skirt aside, she patted the bench next to her. “Sit with me, _pitya_. It is time.”

Holding his blue eyes with her gaze, she looked back to a time almost seven millennia ago, when she had been young.

 

The light of the young sun slanted through the towering trees of Doriath, and the voices and laughter of a brother and sister carried through the air as they crossed the Great Stone Bridge to Menegroth, their golden hair and the style of their clothes marking them apart from the Sindar. Guards saluted as they approached, and the vast stone doors leading to the Thousand Caves swung open.

“Magnificent!” murmured Finrod admiringly as they passed through, his brilliant grey eyes taking in every detail. “Dwarven work at its best.”

“Each time I see you lately, you look like a wild _Moriquendë_ of the woods,” Galadriel chided him, taking a stained and threadbare sleeve between her fingers. “A beggar even! I should mistake you for one, save for your hair.”

Finrod smiled as she affectionately tugged on a lock of his bright golden tresses, dim only in comparison to the radiance of her own. “Clothes take up much space, Artë. One set to wash, one to wear, is my rule on the road. Unlike one I know,” he added teasingly, “who left Tol Sirion to reside in Doriath six months ago with two horses to bear just her clothes.”

The two saddle packs he carried slung over his shoulders were stuffed full with notes he had taken on his travels, detailed maps he had drawn. He would take them later to the scribes of Doriath to have them copied, and leave a set in the Menegroth library. Despite the fact that he had travelled the past three days with scarcely any sleep, he did not seem weary. He had always possessed a wanderlust, but in the past year, there had been something particularly restless and driven about him as he explored lands still uncharted by the Noldor: the coastlines, the deep forests, the wide plains, and the mountain regions. Ever since he had returned from his journey down the Sirion with their cousin Turgon. 

They descended down a wide corridor carved with great buttresses on either side like the shapes of trees, and animals carved among them. As they walked, Galadriel spotted a flash of colour in her eldest brother’s tresses and reached out to feel two small beads, one of a red gem, one of a green stone. They were braided into a lock hidden in the thick waves of his golden hair, and carved with alien runes. “Ingo! What is _this?”_

He felt them. “Oh, that. Dwarven beads of friendship. My Khuzdul is not too good yet, but from what I could understand, they were intended to bless me with ‘lands flowing with jewels’ and ‘a long and lasting line of descendants’.”

“Knowing you, I can well see the first happening. But I wait still for you to give me hope of the second.” She regretted the words as soon as they left her lips. He hardly ever showed it, the shadow that lurked in his heart, but now she saw it touch his eyes.

“Ingo. I am sorry—” she began.

But he had suddenly frozen in his tracks, and was staring down a side corridor that curved away to their left. “It cannot be. . .”

Then the packs were dropped to the ground, and he was racing down the tunnel, his bright hair flying in the wind.

Galadriel saw what her brother saw. “No! Ingo—” And she ran after him.

 _“Amárië!”_ he called. “ _Amárië! Indo-ninya!”_

Ahead of them, a maiden danced on light feet, her silken hair gleaming a pale gold. Hearing his voice, she came to a halt on a bridge that floated in the air over a chasm, next to a subterranean waterfall plunging into dark depths below. The rocks of the walls and high ceiling of the surrounding cavern glowed with soft opalescent hues, and lit her graceful form as she turned to face him. Her deep blue eyes widened, and her lips parted in amazement.

Already he had come to a stop at one end of the bridge, flushed with embarrassment. Now that she faced him, he could tell at once that it was not his beloved. She was taller by half a head at least; the shape of her eyes, the line of her nose and jaw, all so different. He was dumbfounded at his moment of insanity. How could he even for a moment have thought that Amárië would be here, when he knew full well that an ocean and a doom lay between them?

 _“Goheno nin, híril-nín,”_ he said in elegant, fluent Sindarin, giving her a deep and graceful bow. “I mistook you for one I know.”

The bewitching beauty resembled the Vanya Amarië in striking ways. Hair of a rare shade hovering between gold and silver that could sometimes be found among both the Vanyar and the Teleri. Deep blue eyes with dark eyelashes and eyebrows. Her heart-shaped face wore an expression of sweetness and innocence, but her lips were full and sensuous, and they curved in a soft smile as her eyes rested on the tall, golden-haired stranger in his threadbare, travel-stained clothes.

“Fortunate the maid whom you seek, _hîr-nín_ , and my loss not to be she,” she murmured, her voice light and sweet like a pretty singing bird’s. A voice that sent shivers down the spine of an elflord in fine, flowing robes who was approaching from the far end of the bridge.

Galadriel was already at Finrod’s elbow. “Rílel, this is my brother Finrod. And this, my brother, is the daughter of Gilornel, the daughter of Galadhon, the son of Elmo,” she said in Sindarin. Finrod smiled as he bowed again to the maiden.

“The stars shine on our meeting, fair kinswoman.”

“I rejoice with the stars, and welcome you to Menegroth, my kinsman,” Rîlel replied and made a graceful reverence towards him.

The tall, dashing Sindarin lord with piercing grey eyes had reached the side of the maiden, and there was no mistaking the proprietary way he positioned himself there. There was disdain in his eyes as they raked over the shabby attire of the stranger.

“Lord Oropher,” Galadriel inclined her head gracefully to the Sinda. “This is my brother Finrod.”

Oropher’s eyes remained cold as he and Finrod swept deep bows to each other. A few courtly pleasantries were exchanged and they went separate ways.

“That was embarrassing,” said Finrod with a rueful smile, as he and Galadriel returned to the main corridor. “Whatever got into me? I must be more tired than I realized.”

“The resemblance is strong. You could not be blamed,” she said consolingly. He had made no mention of Amárië since they left Valinor, not even to her, and this was the first time she had dared allude to the Vanya.

He shouldered his packs again. “I brought some fine crystalware from Nogrod as a gift for the king and queen. I hope it did not shatter when I dropped my pack.”

 

The gift was indeed intact, and pleased the King and Queen of Doriath, but the greater sensation was caused by the fairest prince of the Noldor himself. A bath and change of apparel later, he entered the Great Hall to a ripple of feminine admiration that ran through the assembled nobility. His tall, noble form was arrayed in Sindarin robes of silver, blue, and white, with white jewels in the braids of his luminous gold hair, and his eyes were brilliant with the Light of the Trees.

On his part, Finrod could not admire the caves of Menegroth enough, and over the next two months he was greatly engrossed in his exploration and study of the city, spending many hours with the Naugrim to discuss their engineering and craftsmanship. At other times, Oropher offered himself as Finrod’s guide and companion, for he had not failed to note how a certain pale-haired beauty with a merry laugh often crossed the prince’s path. She would come by to swim at the underground lakes when Finrod was brought there. She would oft chance to pass them in the labyrinthine corridors, and her softest glances were for her golden-haired cousin, not her Sindarin suitor. If Finrod trained with the warriors of Doriath, she would be watching from a passage somewhere above. And every time he sought the company of Galadriel, Rílel would be one of her companions and position herself close to his side. Her presence deeply discomfited the Noldorin prince, not only because of her likeness to his Vanya, but because he was well aware of Oropher’s feelings. Despite Finrod’s care to be courteous but distant with the lovely Sinda, Oropher found himself imagining violent fates for his golden-haired guest. Such as being mauled to death by a wild beast on his travels. And it made him feel guilty, for it was difficult not to like the warm, affectionate Noldo.

By mid-autumn, Galadriel felt how restive her brother was growing, not unlike a stallion impatient to race. It did not surprise her when he announced one day, “I depart tomorrow, Artanis.”

A clattering sound made them turn. Rílel had knocked over a decanter and red wine stained the floor. She flushed and murmured an apology for her clumsiness. Two other maidens hastened to her aid. _So she understands some Quenya,_ thought Galadriel, who had observed the girl’s infatuation grow with disapproval _. I must speak with her_.

 _“But it is your begetting day,”_ Galadriel reproved him in their thoughts. “ _Stay one more day with me. I had plans for you.”_

_“Forgive me, Artë… but my begetting day means little, and the wilds call me. I have stayed too long here already. I shall be back in summer for your begetting day, I promise.”_

_“So long?”_ Galadriel sighed, feeling already the sadness of separation. “ _And whither go you now?”_

 _“I do not know exactly where yet,”_ he said, the glow of adventure in his face. _“But I travel west.”_ Thingol had spoken of caves, beyond the moors and the open plains, where the River Narog ran.

 _“Wait till spring,”_ she pleaded. “ _Winter shall be upon the lands soon.”_

His eyes met hers, with a hint of amusement over the sorrow of the memory. _“What are these winters, compared to our years on the Grinding Ice?”_

She walked to him and laid her hand on his shoulder, and rested her side of her golden head against his own. _“Please be safe.”_

_“I do my best.”_

His arm slipped around her shoulders, and brother and sister watched the twinkling of a thousand golden lights in the ceiling of the cavern above them. _Grodelin_ … subterranean stars.

 _“Very well then. We will celebrate tonight,”_ she told him.

 

They dined in a space near the waterfall that evening, an atmosphere of gaiety filling the air. The King and Queen stopped by to grace the occasion, and Princess Lúthien offered as her gift to her nephew a graceful dance and a song sweeter than a nightingale’s. When the princess of Doriath and the prince exchanged a gentle farewell kiss, Rílel’s distress could not be hidden. The beauty with pale-gold hair and other adoring maidens plied him with plates of delicacies all evening, and kept his goblet full of wine.

“Have mercy, _hiril-nín!_ ” laughed Finrod in protest, as Rílel presented yet another goblet of wine to him. “I can eat and drink no more.”

“Oh, just one more, my lord prince,” pleaded Rílel. “It is a special wine… from the warm valleys of South Ossiriand.” She continued to hold it out to him.

Courteously, he accepted it and drank. Oropher glowered at the back of his golden head, and miserably drained his own goblet dry.

Brother and sister retired to their rooms, shortly after. As they neared the door of Galadriel’s chambers, Finrod was swaying on his feet a little, and as she opened her door, he slumped against a wall.

“Ingoldo!” she exclaimed in shock. “Did I not know you better, I would think you drunk.”

“That wine from Ossiriand is potent, Artanis. My head is feeling rather heavy.” And he stifled a yawn.

“It is well that your chamber is next to mine. Come, brother, let me be gallant and escort you, for a change.” She smiled and pulled him to his feet. “Lean on me.” She got him through his door and to his bed. He sat down on it, looking dazed. She frowned at him in concern.

“Let me unbraid your hair for you.” And she undid his braids as she had when she had been little, and ran her fingers through his shining tresses.

“I regret I did not release her from our betrothal ere I left, Artë,” he said. In the chaos and the darkness, he had made his choice—his people, and the call of the Hither Lands. There had been a farewell kiss and a hasty promise to wait, even as the trumpets blew for the march to Alqualondë. No time to reflect, to share the thousand things upon his heart. No knowledge of the doom and the curse, nor that there might never be any return. “There will be no one else for me, ever. But she—I should have left her free to bind with another.”

Her heart wrenched at the catch in his voice. He had been a pillar of strength for them, all through the time the darkness fell, through the horror of Alqualondë, through the years of flight over the Helcaraxë. He had carried orphans in his arms and sung in the freezing wastes as the people had cried in terror for the breaking of the ice beneath their feet. He sang the light of the Trees that were gone, sang of broad plains and deep woods and sweet running streams that awaited them in the lands ahead, as his grandfather Finwë had oft told. And the exiles’ hearts had warmed and grown brave as they heard his song. Nay, more, witnesses insisted that the power of his song had held the very ice ahead together until they had passed. He had laughed when Galadriel told him of the legend of the Blessed Findaráto. “A song of power? Hardly. I sang to keep our spirits up—and my own courage. That the ice held is entirely Eru’s grace.”

She had never seen her eldest brother look lost and hurting as he did now. She kissed his brow.

“As your heart is for her, so is hers for you,” said the little sister soothingly. “There can be no one else for her either, I am sure.”

He did not reply. She knelt before him and laid a hand on his knee. “Shall I stay here with you a while, Ingo? I shall sing to you songs of the Teleri that our mother sang.”

He smiled into her eyes, and was once again the big brother she knew. “Nay. I should sleep now, little one. And so should you.”

“Very well. Have a safe journey, beloved.” She kissed his cheek before leaving. He oft disappeared early before dawn.

 

Galadriel woke feeling a wrongness in her spirit. A deep unease.

It persisted as she dressed her hair. She called to Aelin, the maiden who had just brought in her breakfast tray. “Aelin. Could you see if Lord Finrod has departed?”

The maiden returned in a while. “No one has seen him this morning, lady. His horse is in the stables. And there is no answer at his door.”

Galadriel ate a few morsels and swallowed her tea and left the room. Even as she laid her hand on the heavy wood of Finrod’s door, she sensed he was there. Yet her mind, reaching out, could not find his thoughts.

“Ingoldo! It is I.” There was no sound. She pushed against the door and it opened. She took in the rumpled bedclothes, and the mane of gold hair falling over the edge of the bed. “Ingo!” she shook the bare shoulder, gently first, then more violently. The only response was a gentle snore. _He never snores!_ And his eyes were shut. _Shut_! The long dark-gold lashes lay still against his fair cheek. In sleep, the eldest son of Finarfin looked younger than herself. Anxious and baffled, she knelt by him and gently reached out with her mind to meld with his.

She pushed through waves of heaviness, felt a deep languor almost overcome her. Then saw a deep forest where a prince and a Vanya lay entwined in sleep. The light of Telperion poured silver over them through the branches and leaves.

Galadriel hastily retreated from something too private, too intimate for her eyes or knowledge. _Forgive me, Ingoldo._

She smoothed the bright curtain of hair back from her sleeping brother’s face, as a mother might, and looked around the room. Something felt wrong. Her skin prickled as she sensed a power she was unfamiliar with, something wild—a magic from the years of starlight. She smelled on his breath the wine of the previous night. And something else—a bitter, pungent aroma. She breathed the familiar scent of his skin, and picked up another scent that made her grey eyes flash steel and her mouth tighten.

“Rílel…” she growled.

 

She swept down the hallway, her face stern, and all who saw her cleared a path for her.

She had called her brother Orodreth, who had been in Doriath the past half year, contentedly learning the healing arts under Melian. Orodreth had confirmed her suspicions that their brother had been drugged. He might wake with little memory of anything that had happened, and hopefully not more than a heavy head.

_Happy begetting day, dear brother…_

White robes sweeping the floor behind her, Galadriel saw her prey dart nervously through the great doors of the Menegroth library and followed. The library was not a place Rílel frequented, and she soon found herself cornered in the poetry section, shrinking back against the dark wooden shelves laden with books and scrolls.

Galadriel had quickly ascertained that they were alone, but she spoke to the girl’s mind to ensure none heard them.

“ _Wretched girl. What have you done?_ ” The eyes of the shining white lady who towered over her were so terrible in her barely suppressed fury that Rílel could not answer. Instead, the girl lashed out wildly with her mind, and Galadriel reeled back in shock more than pain, then quickly subdued the attack and pinned her prey to the bookshelf with her own power.

 _“How_ dare _you? What did you do to him? Do you even understand what powers you are playing with?”_

The girl cowered before her, paralysed, guilt and shame in her wide blue eyes. And now, now that Galadriel looked for it, she sensed power in the girl, so well-disguised beneath the wide-eyed innocent gaze and light laugh—a power that had successfully ensnared her brother and shielded the girl’s plans from both her and him such that neither had had even the flicker of a premonition. And more. She saw the way the young Sinda held herself, the hand gathering the folds of her skirt, laid protectively on her belly.

_Happy begetting day. . ._

_“You are a fool,”_ Galadriel said. “ _Did you think to deceive your way into his love this way? To make him wed you? You know nothing of him, or of love. He is promised. His heart will beat for no other till the end of all things.”_

 _“But I love him,”_ she replied, her eyes pleading _. “And this, the only way I could have him—”_

 _“Do you know how many lives you may have ruined with your rash act, you selfish, thoughtless girl?”_ Galadriel pursued. _“Your own. Have you not seen Lord Oropher’s eyes on you? He is noble, and he loves you. Passionately. But do you think in his pride he or any other lord in Doriath would ever court you again once your shame is known? Think of what you have thrown away for one night of folly. And be sure you have ruined Oropher’s. Never will he look at another as he has looked on you. He will long for you but the thought of you will be poison to him. The babe’s. What legacy will this child have, when it is born of trickery and deceit? Your family. What shame have you brought on them? On your_ noble guardian _?”_ She choked with rage. _“Finrod would marry you rather than dishonour you, then live with a hollow heart till the Second Music, pining for another. Do you want that? Is it love to destroy that which you love? Don’t you_ dare _call what you have done love!”_

Galadriel sensed him behind her before he spoke to their minds, and a shiver passed through her body. _“Lady Galadriel is right, Rílel my sister-daughter. It was badly done, and not the way of true love.”_ The deep, smooth voice in her head caused Galadriel’s heart to skip a beat.

 _“Lord Celeborn,”_ she replied calmly, without turning.

At the sight of her guardian, the girl collapsed. “ _Goheno nin,_ ” she cried out aloud in guilt and shame. The silver-haired lord went to her and wrapped his arms around his ward, the only child of his dead sister.

The girl wept. “I am wed to him now,” she managed to say. “I am his.”

“Nay, foolish child. It takes the free will and consent of two to wed.” Galadriel’s voice was harsh. “This was no marriage. An illusion woven by your spells, an overpowering of his will and his powers by your drugs. He shall wake with no knowledge of what has passed. It is null and void.”

Celeborn’s face was stern and sorrowful. The girl’s father was of Círdan’s people, slain in the last battles of the Falas before the coming of the Noldor. Her grieving mother had returned north to Doriath, leaving her daughter in her eldest brother’s care ere she faded. The bloodlines had power on both sides, but he had thought of his ward as a child still, barely a _yén_ old. Desperate love had stirred nascent powers into life.

The lord and lady led the girl who was a maid no more to a chair and looked at each other over her head.

Galadriel reached out with her _fëa_ to that little light beginning to flutter in the Sindarin _elleth’s_ belly, feeling a warm, golden, glorious melody beginning to be sung. The latest light to burn in the line of Finwë.

“There is a way,” said Celeborn, looking deep into her grey eyes, then speaking into her mind. “ _It is not a path I relish taking, my love. But it will protect all those you have named, restoring to them their future.”_

 

Finrod woke at noon with a splitting headache and a conviction that he would never drink Ossiriand wine again. “Oohhh… I feel like oliphaunts are stomping on my head,” he groaned.

“What in Arda are ‘oliphaunts’? Here, drink this.” Orodreth held a cup to his lips, then laid a cold herbal compress on the prince’s brow. “Blessed begetting day, brother.”

Finrod obediently held the compress to his head, sighed, and looked at his younger brother. Unwarlike, reticent Orodreth, the odd one out of the Finarfinions. Aegnor always had Angrod, and Finrod had always had their cousin Turgon, leaving Orodreth most oft at their mother’s side. With the impending birth of a younger sister, Orodreth had been briefly hopeful of the companionship of a calm, gentle soul to match his own. But alas, it had been Galadriel, and from the first moment it had been Finrod she adored fiercely among her brothers.

In that same year had Aredhel been born to the House of Fingolfin, and thus it had been that for two whole Valian years, Prince Finrod and Prince Turgon could scarce be seen anywhere in Eldamar without their little sisters in tow, two golden and two black.

Finrod wondered still why Orodreth, of them all, had not turned back to Aman with their father. He had little ambition for lands of his own. He did not burn with zeal to defeat Morgoth in battle and avenge their grandfather. He had no desire to explore the wild lands and pursue great adventures. Sensing the healer in the second prince of the Third House—and needing to get him out of Angrod and Aegnor’s way as Minas Tirith was being built—the eldest brother had sent him ahead to Doriath with Galadriel. Orodreth had blossomed under Melian’s tutelage and carried himself now with greater assurance. He might be able to hold Minas Tirith someday, thought Finrod, when Angrod and Aegnor moved north to Ard-galen as they planned.

“Two thousand years of drinking, Artaresto, and I finally find the one cup of wine that does me in.”

“One cup of wine with something extra.”

“Well, it is the fashion to add spices and herbs to wine here, isn’t it? Everything I drank had something extra in it.”

“And a dicey practice it is when foolish elfmaids confuse their herbs,” said Orodreth disapprovingly. “I haven’t figured out what herb yet, but it must have been extremely potent. Just rest.”

Finrod looked thoughtful. “It may explain the dream I had. I had an amazingly vivid dream.” He closed his eyes. And smiled blissfully at memories of his wedding dream.

 

Two tall figures in grey cloaks stood beneath the trees on the edge of the forest, gazing westward. Here, the Woods of Núath were sheltered from the bitter winds of late autumn by the Ered Wethrin to the north and by low hills to the west. The frosty white stars shone down from a cloudless sky.

A lone horseman rode towards the woods. He dismounted and approached the trees with long strides, a singularly tall figure in a cloak of midnight blue. One of the grey-cloaked figures came forward, the other remained under the eaves of the woods.

“I am glad you came,” she said as they drew nigh each other.

“What is all this? A cryptic note, a tight-lipped messenger, a meeting in the middle of nowhere? You have a lot of explaining to do, Artanis.”

She parted her cloak and showed him the bundle swaddled thickly in her arms. A tiny, sweet face showed amidst the layers of fine wool over royal linen. “You are fortunate that he just fell asleep. He is a lively one.” She smiled fondly.

He looked at the baby wordlessly, taking in the long dark lashes, the tiny dreaming blue eyes, and the soft curls of hair that gleamed like richest gold. A babe just a month out of the womb. Then his grey eyes looked up to meet hers with a piercing stare.

“Ask not whose it is. I shall not answer, for the secret is not mine. Forgive me, Turukáno. I can tell you nothing, and yet I must ask... Please, will you take him?” She had never begged in her life. She was begging now.

He looked back at the baby. It gave a yawn, stretching and pushing against the cloth in its dreams, then settled with a tiny sigh. And he knew that he would do it. He would not ask her the questions swirling and screaming through his head. Deep down, although he understood nothing, he _knew._

“A child with that hair. There will be a lot of talk.”

“I know I ask much of you. But this I have seen: this child’s life is twined with the destinies of you and your house, down many generations of your line. Please. To none other would I turn but you.”

He reached out his arms. She kissed the child, and relinquished the precious bundle.

The baby looked up at him, now wide awake. It gave him a toothless smile, and punched a tiny fist out of its swaddling. He touched the tiny hand, and a lump rose to his throat. “Has he his names, at least?” he murmured.

“No.” The unknowing father could give none, nor the mother who had surrendered all rights to him.

“The begetting day, then?”

She hesitated. But she could not deprive the child of even that. After she told it, he was silent for a long time, gazing at the baby as it gurgled at him happily, kicking strongly against its swaddling.

Deep in his _fëa_ , a name for the child came to the Prince of Nevrast.

“Itarillë shall find him a good nursemaid,” was all he said.

Galadriel took out a golden brooch, a graceful eight-petalled flower like a burst of sun rays, and pinned it to the cloth. She watched as her cousin rode west towards the sea. Then she turned back to the forest, where her love awaited her, silver-haired and tall.

They walked deeper into the Woods of Núath, where lay the dwellings of a small, secret tribe of the Laiquendi that for the past year had, after some persuasion, consented to shelter a special guest.

There, in a dwelling shaped by spellsong in the living heart of a great tree, sat a beauty with hair of palest gold. She gazed out of a window into the autumn woods, and saw two elves returning with empty arms.

And bitterly, she wept.

 

On a frosty autumn twilight, Turgon crept by a secret way into his own palace at Vinyamar. He had thought long and hard on the ride back to Vinyamar, but his plan to foster the child out to a family of Sindar in the remoter mountains of Nevrast crumbled the moment his daughter laid eyes on the baby.

He sought Idril out solely to ask her to find a temporary nursemaid. She was weaving at her loom, singing one of her mother’s songs. He stood in the doorway looking at his treasure, whose innocence and joy had withered in the freezing wastes of the north. She had been a mere child when she lost her mother. Now, she lived for her duties, a princess devoted to caring for her people, too old for her years. And for the thousandth time he wished that he had left wife and child safe in Tirion. Had known the horrors that lay ahead. Had turned back in time, as Finarfin had.

The baby woke and gave an angry, demanding wail. He had not fed for a day, and even an elven baby has its limits. He was hungry.

The click-clack of the loom and the song suddenly ceased. “ _Atto?_ ”

And Turgon looked on, stunned, as Idril’s eyes and face lit up with the incandescence of a dozen sunrises. It was love at first sight. Her whole being came alive with excitement and joy as he had not seen it since their days in Tirion by treelight. She snatched the baby from her astonished father’s arms and cuddled him tightly to her bosom.

No talk of fostering it out was possible from that moment onwards.

 

In the autumn of his twelfth year, just after his begetting day, the small, bright child raced swiftly by the sea as the tide swept in. He leapt fearlessly from rock to rock, his bare feet scarcely seeming to touch them. Free and light with the joy of pure movement, he was the wind whipping through his hair, he was the roar of the waves, he was one with Vása in all its burning glory in the sky above. He laughed for the sheer joy of being alive, his hair streaming with the radiance of the morning sun.

 _“Ammë!_ Come on!” he called impatiently over his shoulder.

His voice carried to the traveller above the clamour of waves and wind, as she stood hidden among the gnarled, windswept trees on an escarpment above, the hood of her cloak pulled up such that her face was hidden. She watched as the slender beauty followed the small child, like him bare-footed and dressed in white. They descended from the rocks onto soft, damp sand, swiftly shaped handfuls of it into strange, fantastical towers and buildings, then watched as the eddying waves came in and washed their sand city away.

“ _Aiya_ , Turno,” said the traveller without turning.

“ _Aiya_ , Artë,” said the dark-haired prince as he came up behind her. His mind was full of building plans and blueprints, and he had resented the interruption of the messenger. “I wondered if you would ever come to see him.”

“I was on my way from Tol Sirion to Doriath, and thought to make a detour.”

“This is quite a detour.”

“He has oft been on my mind.” Her eyes had not once left the child. “He does well?”

“Very well indeed. He has been good for Itarillë.”

“I can see that.” A laugh from the princess carried to them on the wind. Idril and the child danced together on the sand. He was tall for his age, and almost reached her hip. Their keen elven ears could hear the two prattling happily away to each other in a fluent mix of Quenya and Sindarin. In many ways, the child in Idril had been resurrected by the child she raised. She sang, she played, she laughed, she danced rather than walked—the childhood she had lost now found again.

“Ready to sail, champion?” called a silver-eyed, dark-haired lord down on the shore. The child ran and took a flying leap into Ecthelion’s arms, almost knocking the wind out of the tall, dark-haired and silver-eyed elflord for a moment. The three of them boarded a ship with two other lords, and headed out to sea.

“He never stays still,” said Turgon, smiling indulgently. “There are times I think he looks as Ingo did at that age.”

She said nothing. She would never tell. And he would never ask.

“He learns fast. And he is very swift.”

Swarming quickly to the top of a mastpole, heedless of Ecthelion’s sharp reprimand, the tiny daredevil hurled himself into space and plunged down into the sparkling waves. Idril gave a startled cry, and both she and Ecthelion plunged into the water, homing in on the spot where the tiny elfling had disappeared. Galadriel held her breath.

The tiny golden head surfaced a few heartstopping seconds later, whooping in delight.

“And fearless. We do our best to keep him alive,” Turgon said with a smile.

_“You wait till I get my hands on you, you little monkey!”_

_“Yonya! You could have been killed!”_

_“Stop laughing, Egalmoth! It’s your turn to babysit tomorrow.”_

They watched in silence, listening to the voices on the ship, the thunder of the waves beyond the sheltered harbour, the relentless power of Ulmo’s voice.

“We have named him Laurefindil,” said Turgon. “But that is not the name I gave him in my _fëa_ , that night at Núath.”

The traveller tore her eyes away from the child to look at him. He told her the name. “But, of course, that is not the name we could use. Hence the _epessë._ And his hair is already sung of as a wonder—by those who have not beheld yours.”

She smiled into Turgon’s eyes. “Thank you,” she said, from the depths of her heart. And it was not for the compliment.

They did not speak of the future before they parted. These were the years of the secret building of Gondolin. The two cousins would not meet again, this side of the Great Sea.

 

“Am I wrong to keep the child from him?” Galadriel asked Celeborn on the ride back to Doriath. “Do you think he would ever forgive me for not letting him know?”

“He will always forgive you. And remember what he told you.”

Finrod’s dark prophecy rang in her ears. She would leave him free to fulfil his vows. Free of ties. Free of knowledge.

“And of the child’s destiny,” Celeborn said softly. “What do you see?”

She did not answer.

_Fire._

_A fall._

_Darkness._

Her eyes grew a little moist.

Celeborn reached out his hand to hold hers, and she let herself be vulnerable to him. As she could be with only him. And no other.

 

Galadriel watched as relief and hope lit her nephew’s face and whole being as he listened rapt to her tale. His smile was radiant as he took her hand and kissed it.

“ _Hantanyel_ , _herinya,_ ” he said from the depths of his heart.

“Ah, you would _thank_ me for what I have done to you, _pitya?_ To have known neither father nor mother for three long ages of the world? To be baseborn, even if it be to the noblest and most beloved prince of the Noldor? Imagine if Findaráto had acknowledged you as his own, and wed your mother. If you had been raised a prince in Nargothrond, with a father you could proudly name.”  She had wondered at times, over the years, how different the history of the Noldor in Beleriand might have been had Glorfindel been at Nargothrond to hold the throne after his father’s death. She reached out her long, slender hand and laid it against her nephew’s cheek. “I knew this day would eventually come. I would understand if you blame me for all that you lost, _pitya_. For what your life might have been. For the loss of your birthright.” _Child of sin_. Yet that child had been favoured and chosen by Eru himself for this mission to the mortal lands, though at times she wondered if it were blessing or curse. “I should be asking for your forgiveness.”

Glorfindel thought of his happy childhood at Nevrast by the sea, and the glorious years of Gondolin, even though they had ended in flames and a dark chasm.

“I would not have had my life any other way. Truly. And I can only thank you for it, my father-sister.” He smiled, a new lightness in his countenance.

With a smile, she leaned forward, and planted a kiss on his brow. “Turukáno gave you a name, acting in your father’s place—Laurefindë.”

His heart was full as he received the name that should have been given to him at birth. “I am… Laurefindë… son of Artafindë Ingoldo,” he said slowly, articulating the names carefully and with wonder. Joy kindled as he was able to name his father for the first time. It mattered nothing to him that his naming would never have been celebrated with the rituals and great ceremony that would have befitted a royal son born in wedlock—firstborn son of the firstborn prince of the Third House of Finwë. Neither did it matter that a bastard would never enjoy the title of “prince”. His smile was incandescent as he looked affectionately at his aunt.

Galadriel returned the smile, seeing with gladness that much of the shadow that had lain over the warrior since his arrival was gone. “I thought of you much over the years. I grieved at the Havens when news of your fall reached me. Almost as though I grieved for him all over again.”

“What would he think of me?... he still does not know I exist?”

“No. And I wonder how easily he will forgive me for keeping you from him.” What she had done, she had done for love of Finrod. She prayed that he would understand. She took his son’s chin in her hand and gazed into Rílel’s blue eyes. “He would be very proud of you, _pitya_. As am I.”

Glorfindel grinned bashfully.

“What happened to my mother?” he asked, as they made their way back to Caras Galadhon. “Did she marry Oropher?”

Galadriel laughed. “Indeed. Bearing you made her a wiser and stronger _nís_ , and Oropher should have thanked you for it. It was not easy for her to give you up. But she understood that it was for your good, and her own.”

“I seem to have acquired a lot of relatives, all of a sudden,” he said, suddenly seeing the intricate web of kinship spreading out around him. It made his mind spin.

“Indeed you have. Perhaps someday I shall have the pleasure of introducing you to them all.”

A sudden thought occurred to him. “Wait—so _Thranduil_ is my _brother?_ ”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief as they met his.

The golden hero burst out laughing for the first time since he had arrived at the golden wood. Lady Galadriel, wise and terrible, took her nephew’s arm, and they walked on together under the mellyrn trees laughing and talking merrily. And all the Galadhrim who saw them were filled with wonder.

 

Glorfindel stifled an impulse to roll his eyes as he stepped into the chamber where Thranduil received him.

Seated on a couch by a large arched window, beyond which one could see great trees clothed in rich autumn foliage and the forest river running, King Thranduil of Mirkwood was seated, his body angled away from the elflord of Imladris, conducting some business.

A beautiful wood elf with russet hair was besides her king, and both of them, eyes closed, were involved in some very slow, deep, lingering kisses.

The fair-haired king raised one hand elegantly to signal his awareness of the elflord’s presence, and continued his leisurely exploration of the beauty’s lips.

Glorfindel knew that Thranduil had lost his queen some eight hundred years ago, leaving him with a small princeling to raise on his own. He had loved her passionately, had never recovered from it, had become icier, haughtier, wrapping round his grief with his pride.

The greatest culture shock Glorfindel always experienced when stepping into the Woodland realm was the blatant sexuality of its Silvan elves, more aggressive than that in Lothlórien or any other elven settlement he had encountered in Ennor. He had been shocked to the core of his conservative Eldarin soul when he attended his first woodland feast. To be sure, once these Avari found the special one for them, their marital relationships were as exclusive and tightly binding as any other among the Eldar, but until then, they enjoyed as many dalliances as they wished. Because of that, he always found his trips here rather stressful. He always had to search his chamber and lock his door before retiring for the night.

Two cultures existed here, side by side. The Eldarin culture of the court, and the Avarin culture outside it, and he had always assumed that there was no crossing over the line by either side. Until a visit he made a century ago, when he had stumbled upon Thranduil similarly engaged in a rather amorous activity on the balcony of his throne room.

Looking at his half-brother with new eyes, Glorfindel wondered if what Thranduil felt for the dead Lothuial was as intense as what he felt for Maeglin. He shuddered at the thought of losing Maeglin to death; he was certain his love for her would be for all eternity, but would the need and hunger, would the heat he felt for her continue as well if she passed to Mandos?

And what if it did not? How would he endure it for not a mere ten years, but a thousand? Or till the Second Music?

If the Woodland king found, in the arms of a fair Silvan maid, the only thing that could assuage his grief and need—however briefly—who was he to judge, knowing now the agony of such need? There existed not a wine in all Arda that could make Thranduil drunk enough to grant him the mercy of a moment’s oblivion. And here in his realm there were any number of fair maids lining up for the privilege of pleasuring their beautiful king, if only for a season. They would move on thereafter to bind themselves eternally to Silvan mates, none of whom would mind taking a bride from the bed of the king himself.

Glorfindel wondered what Legolas Thranduilion thought of all this. There was such an air of innocence about the boy that one wondered if he was even aware of his Ada’s trysts. Maybe he spent so much time roaming the woods slaying spiders that he was hardly ever around to observe what Glorfindel was now seeing.

Sometimes, looking at Legolas, Glorfindel remembered Thranduil as he had been. Back in the days when he was Prince Thranduil, and they had been friends when he visited the Greenwood or the prince came to Imladris.

Then had come the Last Alliance, the long march down the Anduin River, and the bitter Battle of Dagorlad. Glorfindel himself had gone in with the Imladrin forces to rescue Thranduil, and the balrog slayer had borne the fatally wounded Oropher off the battlefield. He remembered the fair head of the prince bent over the body of Oropher his father, weeping like a brokenhearted child. He had risen to his feet a king. As Glorfindel saw Thranduil’s pale, bleak face and saw hard steel enter his eyes, he knew the prince he had known had vanished forever.

Then Lothuial’s loss, eight hundred years ago, had sent the ice into the Woodland king’s heart.

Glorfindel’s visits to Mirkwood had become increasingly painful because nothing he tried to say or do could resurrect the friendship they once had. Thranduil was ever distant, detached, and disdainful towards him. Generally, Thranduil annoyed Glorfindel with his aloofness, and Glorfindel annoyed Thranduil by getting Legolas into all manner of adventures and misadventures when he visited. But the fun did the boy so much good, thought Glorfindel, stifling a grin at the thought, already planning in his head what they could do the next day.

Occasionally there were moments of highhandedness from the King that came close to insult. Such as now, as the King kept the mighty warrior from Imladris standing and waiting like a lackey.

But Glorfindel was in a forgiving mood that day and even fascinated by the scene before him.

He tilted his head to one side and observed that Thranduil seemed exceptionally skilful at kissing. A proficiency that probably came from much experience. He was imagining himself kissing Maeglin the same way when Thranduil rose languidly from his couch and dismissed the beauty with a wave of his hand. She left reluctantly, her eyes lingering on her monarch as she departed.

As they discussed fortifications and the preparations that would be needed in the event, however slim, of a full-on assault by whatever power was stirring in Mordor, Glorfindel thought he saw the shadow of loneliness behind the piercing blue eyes of the King. And the warrior felt a surge of protectiveness and tenderness towards his little brother.

And more empathy than he might have imagined he could have felt just ten years ago.

 

Let us now go back a few thousand years to a harbour on Tol Eressëa.

A crowd has gathered to watch a white ship depart. This is unusual, for they gather only when one arrives. But today something altogether unprecedented for the past millennium has happened. There is a passenger for the mortal lands.

Not just a passenger, but one of the rebodied from the Halls of Mandos. At this time, the rebodied in Valinor are still not numerous, and objects of great interest, because of their dark and tragic histories. This one, especially, inspires curiosity. For all have now heard of the fall of Gondolin and the golden hero who fell slaying the greatest of balrogs. Yet few have seen him over the past millennium that he has dwelt in Valinor. The aura of mystery that shrouds him has brought many here. And if a few murmurs and speculation have broken out as they look on his fair face and golden hair, Olórin with a wave of his hand has dulled them so that they reach not the ears of the warrior as he embarks.

The white ship begins to pull away from the dock, and the hero of Gondolin stands on the deck waving at ones so dear to him on the shore, the ones he had died to save.

The crowd parts before the Crown Prince of the Noldor, the son of High King Finarfin, who is staring at the passenger aboard the ship like a man in a dream.

Glorfindel has eyes for none but the faces of his loved ones. He is smiling, and his golden hair flows streaming in the sea breeze, bright in the morning sun.

On the shore, his hair the same rich, rare shade of gold—both  deep and bright—the erstwhile King of Nargothrond, the rebodied slayer of the great werewolf of Tol-in-Gaurhoth, stares at the departing hero like a starving man.

For Findaráto Ingoldo of the Noldor has had two heartaches in this land of bliss since his rebodiment.

One, that he alone of his siblings is here. His brothers still dwell with Mandos and his beloved sister is still across the great sea.

The second, his deep yearning for a child. After a millennium, he and his beloved wife Amárië have had none, and though his passion and love for her are diminished not one whit, that ache for a child, his child, has remained, eating at him deep within.

He takes one look at the golden-haired, bright-faced elf on board the ship, pulling away from shore, pulling away from him, and gasps like one struck through with a spear.

With a lurching shock, he _knows_.

His heart racing, hardly knowing what he is thinking, he steps forward and would have plunged into the waves but for the tall maia who bars his way with one strong arm. “Prince Findaráto,” says Olorin, shaking his head gently and looking at him with compassion.

“How can this be?” cries the dazed prince, his eyes still on the ship vanishing into the horizon. “By Eru, _how can this be?”_

Some of the onlookers are gazing at him with curiosity and compassion, for he is much beloved among them. Idril walks slowly across to her uncle, seeing traces of her foster son clearly in his face, his hair. She has kept silent and fiercely quelled all rumours for the last two thousand years, protecting both her foster son and her kinsman from scandal, because she has always known her uncle to be the most noble and honourable of the Noldor, and yet she knew him to be unmarried in the mortal lands. She still has no answers for this mystery that is Glorfindel.

She senses that he has none too.

Finrod cannot take his eyes from the ship till the white speck has vanished from elven eyes over the curve of the horizon.

Had he only known, had he only seen earlier, he would not have let the ship leave, would not have let the Valar themselves take his child from him without a fight.

_I have a son. I have lost him in the moment that I found him._

He turns to look into the sweet, sad eyes of his niece, Idril.

“Let me tell you about him, _tyenya_ Findaráto,” she says, and reaches out her hand to him.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Herinya (Q) – my lady

Indo-ninya (Q) – my heart

Goheno nin (S) – Forgive me

Grodelin (S) – underground stars – glow worms

 

_Notes:_

_1\. The events related of Glorfindel’s begetting and childhood take place in First Age 51-64 before Thingol banned Quenya and the Noldor from Doriath. Hence it would have been quite possible for Celeborn to have travelled with Galadriel to Tol Sirion (I’m pre-empting any protests)._

_2\. Oh, Orodreth as a healer – that’s from EbonyKitty552 on AO3 again. I always headcanoned him as unwarlike and introverted, and I liked her idea that Orodreth was at heart a healer and learned healing at Doriath. So I’ve pinched the idea._

_3\. One Valian year = 9.582 solar years_

_4\. Some rambling: Any out there who liked my story the first round, I hope I’m not ruining it for you. I really intended to upload the original, which moved along faster, with only minor edits, but once I got self-indulgent and started on the changes and additions, it went out of control. It’s pretty fluffy but I feel it is an improved version and I hope you do too._

_5\. I love Book!Thranduil who is a wonderful king. Unfortunately, Movie!Thranduil is more fun to write, and my version of him is someone deeply scarred by the terrible losses of his life, particularly the death of his queen when Legolas was tiny. I see strong parallels with Elrond in this area. Both have gone through similar trauma and tragedy since early childhood (kinslaying, loss of parents, loss of a wife). In Elrond's case, he also lost his foster parents and his twin, and yet emerged astonishingly sane and whole. I'd like to attribute that in no small part to Maglor and Maedhros' parenting skills, and perhaps to Elrond and Elros having each other in childhood and early manhood._

_6.This month, Dec 2015, marks my first anniversary as a writer. I was only a reader until I read the Fem Maeglin short by EbonyKitty52 and this story had its genesis. It’s been quite a journey and I want to thank everyone who has encouraged me with their reviews and feedback._


	17. No Place Like Home

A pair of eagles soared in a mating dance, circling through the blue skies over the Hithaeglir, the male turning spectacular cartwheels in his courtship display.

The elf had watched this avian ritual many times over thousands of years. For a moment, as he lay on his back gazing at the sky, he could almost imagine the surrounding mountain peaks were the Echoriad...

_“Have a care, Sunhair. You are not built to defy gravity.”_

_The youngest Lord of Gondolin laughed as he pulled himself up onto the ledge above him. The valley of Tumladen spread out below him—fertile new farmlands being tilled, lush grasslands clothed in springtime greenery. Pristine white towers on a hill glistened in the morning light._

_“I trust you to catch me, Sorontar, should I fall. But I shall not fall!” he called out blithely with the invincible confidence of youth._

_Thorondor fixed the elf with a thoughtful, almost sad, golden stare. A shiver passed over the young lord, a brief vision of flames and sheer cliffs rushing past..._

_Then, pushing back a lock of golden hair blown by the wind over his face, he shrugged off the shadow, and climbed on upwards._

The massive eagle perched by his side now on this high crag was not Thorondor, but his smaller descendant.

“It seems but yesterday he was just an egg,” the eagle was saying, his head swivelling as he watched his grandson’s pursuit of a mate.

“I remember, Gwaihir. Three hundred and eighty-two springs past.”

“Aye, Sunhair. And only three hatchlings in our eyries all that time since. None for the last hundred and fifty-nine springs.”

“Our kind, too, have had no young in recent years.”

Above them, the courting eagles locked talons, and spun around in the sky, spiralling earthwards in a dramatic, death-defying free-fall. Glorfindel quickly sat up to watch them somersault downwards, looking down from his high perch to see them disengage just a split-second before they would have struck the rocks far, far below. It never failed to take his breath away. And this time, there seemed to be a particular poignancy in it for him.

“You are not now as you once were, Sunhair,” observed the ancient bird, as he casually preened his breast feathers with his great hooked beak. “You have a mate on your mind this spring.”

Glorfindel started, and looked sharply at the Lord of the great eagles, his blue eyes wide.

“I would know that look on any of my younglings. For each comes a time for the first skydance. Even after seven thousand springs,” said the great raptor, cocking his head at the elf and fixing a fierce golden eye on him. “Yet you linger here at the time of mating? For even your kind, this is the apt season, is it not, to pair and breed?”

The elf was speechless for a while. “It’s...it’s complicated,” he faltered, eventually. “ _Very_ complicated...”

“Your elf-hen will not have you as mate?”

“That’s only part of it,” said the elf sadly. How could an eagle understand what he himself barely did? “I feel...I fear we would hit the rocks.”

The eagle fluffed up his feathers and looked up at the sun. “That can happen,” he conceded.

The young eagles had vanished from their sight. Glorfindel knew that in an eyrie, somewhere, their coupling had begun.

“Yet it is risk makes the dance glorious, and the coupling all the sweeter,” said the Windlord. “Without the plunge, where is courage? Without the dive, where is trust?”

“Yes. _Trust_. When you chose your mate,”—and Glorfindel knew that Gwaihir had been with his mate since before the Fall of Gondolin—“You knew without a doubt, she was _good_.”

Gwaihir looked baffled. “There are no _bad_ eagles.”

“Precisely. It is...much _simpler_ , for your kind.” The elf appeared to struggle with himself for a while. “And you see. . .I have fallen and struck the rocks once before. Because of her.” As he spoke, he realized something new to himself. “And I would willingly be dashed against them again. If it was for her.”

The Windlord cocked his golden eye at Glorfindel again. “So—what _is_ it you fear?”

The elf’s blue eyes were wretched and confused. “It’s complicated.”

 

Glorfindel had left Dale in an uncertain state of mind that had begun much earlier. As the snows receded and spring came to Dale and the Lonely Mountain, the elf’s mood vacillated wildly.

There had been a raucously cheerful winter’s night drinking ale with King Bard and King Dáin II Ironfoot, which had ended in the King under the Mountain loudly declaring the elf a good fellow and inviting him to visit Erebor.

If the dwarven king ever regretted the invitation once he sobered, Glorfindel never knew. As the elf wandered within the Lonely Mountain, the vast complexes of forges and furnaces, the deep mines and great mountain halls, had all filled him with a surge of longing for one missed so intensely that there was a perpetual ache of emptiness within his heart. _I wish I could share this with you. You would have loved this._ He paid far too much—dwarves know how to drive a shrewd bargain, especially with a lovelorn elf—for a few crafting tools that he knew she would like.

But then had come sudden bleakness, sparked by his chancing across the tomb of Thorin Oakenshield.

The golden-haired warrior stared, white-faced, at Orcrist in its shining scabbard, laid upon the cold marble slab of the heir of Durin’s tomb.

Glorfindel had not previously been upset when the dwarf had worn Ecthelion’s sword on his belt, the summer before Maeglin came to the valley. When Thorin gave him leave, Glorfindel had briefly held the ancient blade in his hands, deeply moved by the memories that it brought. That the great weapon had survived and would continue to cleave goblins had rather pleased the balrog-slayer, as he was sure it would have pleased his first-life’s best friend. Ecthelion would, after all, have no trouble replacing it with a finer blade in Aman.

But now, surrounded by deep, subterranean shadows and the tombs of dead kings, Orcrist spoke in a cold voice to the Lord of the Golden Flower. It spoke of Ecthelion’s grim, bloodied face, as Glorfindel had retreated with the remnants of their troops from the Square of the King. It spoke of Ecthelion plunging into the waters of his own fountain, pulling his fiery foe with him to their deaths.

And the sword whispered to Glorfindel: _you too are a traitor_.

A traitor to all the Gondolindrim, his love for the only one of the Firstborn to form alliance with the Black Foe making him complicit, guilty.

That night, back in Dale, sleep eluded Glorfindel. He sat by the window and watched as flurries of snow fell over the city. . .

“There is naught to deliberate,” said the Lord of the Golden Flower, his voice echoing in Gondolin’s Great Hall of Council. “Was the message of the Lord of the Waters not clear? We should make preparation to depart whilst there is time.”

Black eyes levelled a piercing glance at him. A skeptical eyebrow lifted.

“‘Message of the Lord of the Waters’?” Maeglin said slowly. “Methinks Lord Laurefindil is over-hasty. Should the words of a mere mortal cause us to abandon all we have laboured long to build, to flee in craven fear? Why would the Lord of the Waters choose one of these weak ones—so easily twisted to the will of Morgoth, as we saw to our great loss in the Nirnaeth—as his messenger?”

“The House of Hador are nothing like Uldor and his ilk,” said Ecthelion sternly. “They have ever resisted the Shadow with great courage, and at great cost to themselves. I see this man’s nature in his face. He is noble as his father was noble, and there is no shadow upon him. I would not have granted him admittance otherwise.”

Glorfindel glared with grim, dark-blue eyes at the one upon whom shadow rested—who had revealed that shadow on a garden terrace one autumn long ago. The black eyes met his briefly and quickly flicked away.

“So was Húrin noble, yet his son wrought Nargothrond’s fall,” said the prince of Gondolin. “I say not that the son of Huor seeks to deceive. Yet he may himself be under deception. One may be an instrument of darkness all unknowing, for not the Valar alone are the source of dreams and visions. And the lesser children of Ilúvatar are perchance more susceptible to the manipulations of the Black Foe.”

“He came clad in the very armour Ulmo said we should take as a sign,” said the Lord of the Swallow.

“Armour that lay within unguarded ruins for centuries. It was only a matter of time before one came and looted it, if not this vagabond mortal, then some bandit—though to my mind, there is little difference.”

The Lord of the Heavenly Arch looked thoughtful. “There was a power in the son of Huor’s words beyond that of any ordinary man. Did not our _fëar_ stir within us as he spoke?”

Maeglin shrugged. “No more than it would for any orator skilled in swaying hearts and minds, as he undeniably is. I do not know about _power_...” The black eyes narrowed. “But— _if_ there was power indeed, then it begs the question: _whose_ power? Who would gain most from our abandonment of this stronghold? Who is it desires most our retreat, our giving up our opposition to Angband from this secret kingdom? Think—’twas Lord Ulmo himself that chose this very valley, this very land. Do we not question his wisdom in this choice, if we entertain thoughts of deserting it? Is it not counter to his plan and purpose? And think of all our labours for the last centuries. With all we have done to fortify and safeguard this kingdom, is there a place more impregnable than this in all Arda? The eagles watch over it. With constant vigilance, our patrols wipe out any of Morgoth’s creatures that wander near, leaving nary a trace for others to find. The mortal himself would never have found the way, save by Voronwë’s guidance—and indeed, I wonder that severer disciplinary measures have not been meted out to the son of Aranwë for violation of our laws...”

 

Glorfindel gazed bleakly out over the moonlit city of Dale through frosty window panes as he recalled that day. The debate had gone back and forth another hour. Taciturn and silent as the Lord of the Mole was wont to be, he could hold forth with eloquence at need. All the lords had spoken in turn, and at the end were divided into two equal camps.

“I have spoken enough.” A princely wave of a hand, wearily. “In the end, it matters not what I think.” Maeglin turned to the king who sat next to him, and bowed deeply. “I shall abide by the will of my king. Let it be as you decide, my liege.”

All eyes in the Council Hall were on Turgon, who had sat stern and silent, listening to the debate, the gaze of his grey eyes oft moving from his nephew and his lords to the great stone-arched windows. Beyond, his white city lay glittering and breathtakingly beautiful in the morning sunshine. Fairer even than Tirion, to his mind. And more beloved.

“Aye,” said Penlod, standing and bowing. “Let it be as you decide, my lord king.”

As one by one, the lords stood and bowed, Glorfindel and Ecthelion’s eyes met across the table. Maeglin knew well the king’s heart. As did they.

Not the king and his nephew alone loved the city. For all the lords, this was home, and dearer perhaps to those who had known great loss of another across the sea. If there was still uneasiness in some hearts, if some wondered still if the warning might not truly be of Ulmo, it did not cost them great effort to disregard it.

Years later, Maeglin vanished. For months. His most trusted aides within the House of the Mole knew not his whereabouts, but said he was seeking for ores on the mountain slopes within the valley, now that Anghabar was out of bounds. If they were to be trusted, the Lord of the Golden Flower had thought darkly. Their loyalty to Maeglin ran so deep, that he would not have put it past them to lie at their lord’s behest.

Ah, and what could inspire such loyalty?

Glorfindel, as he sat by the window in Dale, remembered a night back in Gondolin, shortly after their return from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

 

“Come quickly,” said a terse, abrupt voice. “It’s Eneldur.”

Startled, the Lord of the Golden Flower turned from the patient he was watching over to see the Lord of the Mole standing behind him in his white infirmary gown—the first time in over a century the latter had worn anything but the perpetual mourning of black. He was ashen and leaned on the doorway for support, his hair falling in a black tangle over his shoulder.

“You should not have left your bed,” said Glorfindel sharply, himself with a bandaged left hand.

“Eneldur’s taken a turn for the worse,” Maeglin snapped impatiently. “Will you come? I cannot find any of the fool physicians on duty.”

There was no mistaking the urgency in his voice, nor the desperation that must have driven him to seek help from the elf he hated. The golden-haired lord glanced at his now peacefully sleeping patient, then quickly rose, helping the Lord of the Mole to the next room without another thought. And as they hurried there, the prince accepted the Golden Flower’s strong shoulders under his arm, and his enemy’s good arm half-lifting him by his waist.

Eneldur was a lowly _ohtar_ in the army of the Mole. It was clear at once to Glorfindel that he was sinking—the grey colour of his face, the sunken eyes, the struggle for each rasping, shallow breath through the open mouth.

Maeglin dropped onto the stool by the bed and leaning over, said harshly. “Hold on, damn you. Don’t you dare give up on me. You hear me, _ohtar?”_ But his hand closed over the dying man’sin a clasp that was unexpectedly gentle.

On the other side of Eneldur’s pallet—they had run out of beds in the healing hall and pallets were lined up in rows in rooms converted to makeshift infirmaries—Glorfindel knelt and laid his hand on the _ohtar’s_ chest. He had been tending the wounded all day, and his reserves were already depleted.  He began to sing softly, letting what strength and healing remained in his _fëa_ and _hröa_ flow into the fading warrior.

Glorfindel did not know how much time passed before he collapsed. When he came to, he was sitting on the floor, leaning against a wall, and Rog was crouched next to him, eyeing him with grave concern.

“The Mole _ohtar_ —” Glorfindel managed to say.

“Sleeping. Better.”

“Lómion?”

“Here,” growled a low voice. The golden head turned slowly to see Maeglin seated next to another of his _ohtari_. Eleven wounded Moles lay in this room.  

“ _Hantanyet_.” The raven head gave a nod of thanks.

Glorfindel gave him a small smile, then slipped into unconsciousness again as the Lord of the Hammer slung the golden lord’s tall, slender frame over his broad smith’s shoulder and took him back to the House of the Golden Flower.

 

The first green on the trees in Dale and the sound of rushing meltwaters brought a huge rush of elation. Glorfindel’s work with King Bard and his warriors went smoothly, and was concluded by mid-spring. As Glorfindel bade farewell to the people of Dale—including numerous children with whom he had enjoyed some stirring snow fights—the elf could barely wait to pack his gear, jump on Asfaloth, and head west.

But on the journey home, Asfaloth was more baffled and exasperated by his rider than he had been for the almost seven millennia of their whole relationship.

The elf hardly sang on the journey. He was silent for alarmingly long stretches of time.

At times, the elf rode him at a tearing pace, as though a dozen firedrakes were on their tail.

At others, they slowed to a ridiculous amble, or the elf let him wander free the whole day, grazing by the Anduin, while said elf lay chewing on a stalk of grass, or picking at petals of wild flowers, or staring into space in the most melancholic fashion.

They spent a pleasant enough week with Beorn at the Carrock, who had a delicious treat for the stallion—spring apples.

The elf then urged the white elfhorse to make a mad sprint into the Hithaeglir.

A week was then frittered away socializing with eagles, while Asfaloth grazed in a small mountain meadow in the shadow of the eyries, talking to a few mountain rams to stave off boredom.

Another two weeks were spent ambushing orcs and wargs on the western slopes of the mountains with a disturbingly grim fury that Asfaloth associated more with the _peredhel_ twins when they were in orc-hunting mode.

Late one moonless night, Glorfindel sat high on a ledge in the mountains. From there, he could watch for orcs, keep an eye on Asfaloth, and yet blend into the rockface with his bright hair covered by the elven grey hood and cloak he wore. He had even covered Asfaloth’s gleaming white coat with a grey caparison. The noble steed did not mind; the winds in these heights were nippy.

But even as his blue eyes scanned the slopes around him, and gazed at Eriador stretching out to the west, his thoughts were six thousand years away.

 

The transformation in Lómion, since his mysterious disappearance and return, made Glorfindel and several others uneasy.

“But I do not understand how we missed you,” said the Lord of the Golden Flower with a frown. “We spread out and searched for days. All the slopes around Tumladen.”

“We feared you might have had an accident,” said the Lord of the Swallow.

“Indeed—the hills can be most treacherous, _cundunya_ ,” said the Lord of the Harp, fanning himself vigorously, for it was warm in the forge.

The Lord of the Mole smiled—actually _smiled_ —a pleasant, even winsome smile. The lords were suddenly reminded of Aredhel. And how vastly attractive the prince actually was. One tended to forget, given the grimness of his habitual countenance. “I am deeply touched by your concern. And I regret the valuable effort and resources wasted in the search.” There was a velvety smoothness in the low voice that was new too. “But it was entirely unnecessary. I left clear word with my aides that I would be absent for a time. Prospecting is slow work, and I had to venture deep into hidden caves.”

“Alone?” said the Lord of the Fountain sharply. “Countless dangers lurk in those caves. To have brought none of your men with you was unwise and reckless indeed.”

Ignoring him, Maeglin drew out a bulky cloth bag, and emptied an impressive pile of rough gemstones onto the table. “I found not that which I sought the most—neither iron nor copper, alas—but thankfully, I did not come away empty-handed.”

The eyes of the lords glinted with interest, for they loved gems. And as they fingered the stones, discussed various cuts, and had a share of gems generously bestowed upon each of them by the prince’s generosity, there were no more probing questions regarding the four months and nine days for which he had disappeared without a trace.

He actually became almost popular with the other lords over the next six years.

 

Six years, the prince of Gondolin had gone about his business as usual in the city he had betrayed.

Six years, he had smiled into the eyes of those whose death warrant he had signed.

Glorfindel had combed through his memories, hoping to recall the smallest flicker of guilt or regret on the prince’s face in those six years. Nothing.

Thinking of it always upset the balrog slayer so much that he almost did not note the pack of seven wargs on the rocks below, till Asfaloth raised the alarm.

At once, Glorfindel jumped down with drawn sword, grey cloak swirling behind him. The wargs had descended upon a lone traveller, a tall figure in a dark green hood and cloak, leather armour showing beneath, who was doing good work with his sword defending himself. Even as Glorfindel leapt into the fray he recognized those sword strokes.

_“Estel?!”_

The elflord despatched the last three wargs swiftly, and the traveller pushed back his hood to show a familiar face, grinning. “Glorfindel!”

The two friends embraced.

“What are you doing here, _mellon-nín?_ And all alone?”

“Making my way in the world!” said the young _Dúnadan_ with a smile, though his eyes were grave. He was now almost as tall as Tuor had been, and Glorfindel saw in his face that the youngling of a year past was gone. There was a new fire in his grey eyes, a sense of purpose, a hint of steel. “I shall return not to Imladris, and shall call no place home, till I have proven myself.”

“So...you know,” said Glorfindel to the descendant of Elendil, as they both cleaned and sheathed their swords. “Elrond had not planned to tell you for another five years.”

“Yes, he told me.”

“You have come of age young, lad.”

“All these years, everyone in the house knew—except for me,” there was nothing accusatory in his tone, only matter-of-factness. “Now I understand why you trained me so exactingly, and pushed me as hard as you did.”

“I have seen too many of your forefathers fall before their time, Estel. Your fate shall not be as your father Arathorn’s. I would that you live your full length of days, till you choose to lay them down.”

“Call me Estel no more, Glorfindel, but the name my father gave me.”

“Aragorn. It suits.” Glorfindel grinned. “You do not seek to join with the Rangers up north?”

“I left Imladris a month past, and I have just been with the Rangers in Evendim. Good men all, familiar enough with me from my last few orc raids with them. But I am still an unproven pup in their eyes, though none would say it. I shall return some day, and take up the sword that was broken, when I have earned a right to command their allegiance as much by deed as by blood. I have listened so many hours to the tales of your travels and the lands east of the Hithaeglir, Glorfindel. I go now in search of my own adventures and service. As I have been told, _only he with a heart to serve truly leads._ ”

Glorfindel smiled and nodded. “But it is a long, hard road. And you have not even a horse.”

“Aye, I was sad to part with Duiroch, but he belongs in Imladris.”

“Will you allow me to journey at least part of the way with you? Asfaloth can bear us both.” Glorfindel felt a war within his own spirit—between the pull homewards to Imladris—and the lure of new adventures.

Aragorn looked at Glorfindel with his young-old eyes. “I thank you, _mellon-nín._ You cannot imagine how much that tempts me. But I must make my own way. I have a good sword at my belt, and your teaching within me. I shall be fine.”

“Yes, you shall,” said Glorfindel, his blue eyes solemn, knowing it would be so, yet grieving at the hard roads and the perilous paths and the lonely years he saw stretching ahead of his pupil.

“And,” added Aragorn with a wry smile and a wicked glint in his eye. “You must be impatient to get home to see someone.” The smile quickly faded, and a shadow crossed his face before he could hide it.

“What do you mean?” Glorfindel said sharply, his eyes staring piercingly at the _adan_ , taken aback both by his words and the look on his face that followed. And then, with sudden elven insight, he understood.

“Let’s just say,” said the boy softly, “that I think both of us left our hearts at Imladris. You with Twilight’s Daughter, and I with Twilight’s Star.”

“Oh, Est—Aragorn,” said Glorfindel. “ _Arwen?_ And Elrond knows?”

“Yes.” The boy did not need to say any more. “I was not wrong about you, was I?”

“Am I so transparent? Does everyone know?” said Glorfindel with a sigh.

“Oh, no. At least, I think not. I guessed long ago. You guarded yourself less before me then. I was just a silly boy who wrote bad songs and wanted to go for swims instead of swordfighting lessons.”

Glorfindel laughed, and the two friends returned to the high ledge and talked through the night. And they spoke no more of love, but of the lands and realms and peoples that lay east.

And each in his heart deemed his own cause in love less hopeful than the other’s.

 

The stallion of Aman was relieved when, on a warm, golden, summer morning, they came to the upper course of the Bruinen, and took the path that led them home through the northern pass of Imladris. And as always, elves hailed them enthusiastically from the trees and hillsides, and welcomed them back with song and laughter.

It was good to be home. Asfaloth’s ears relaxed forward and his tail lifted happily as Glorfindel gave him an extra-long wash and grooming.

The warrior could hear the rhythmic song of a hammer on metal even as he settled Asfaloth back in his stable stall. It pulled at him as sirens pull sailors upon the rocks.

And his elven ears could hear a voice. He recognized it. Elrohir’s.

 “...so Elladan and I sneaked into the healing halls early that morning, and stole some hiccupping herb from the cupboard, and put it into Glorfindel’s breakfast.”

Glorfindel winced as he brushed Asfaloth’s coat. He remembered that day. It was a classic elfling prank. Only they had given him a double dose of the herb.

“...he was hiccupping so violently from breakfast till dinner that he had to be sent to the healing halls and all training sessions for the day were cancelled.”

Who was he speaking to? There was no response from whoever it might be.

“ _Ai!_ A smile at last. Your smiles, _híril-nín_ , have become as costly as mithril, and as rare.”

Unable to bear it any longer, Glorfindel finished off Asfaloth’s coat with a last few strokes, strode out of the stables, and peered towards the smithy around the corner of the building.

“I will not devalue them, then,” said a voice that made his heart leap. “Is this a game you wish to play? You shall lose. I can set my face as stone.”

The large doors were wide open, and Maeglin was standing at the anvil nearest the entrance—right where Camaen normally worked, and Camaen was nowhere to be seen at the forge. She was shaping a piece of plate armour on it, and the golden morning light glinted off the steel and off her glossy black hair.

Glorfindel drank in the sight of her, as a parched man might slake his thirst at an oasis after a long spell in the desert. The shapeless boys’ tunic was gone. She was wearing a dark-blue, sleeveless tunic with lacing down the front, and it was fitted in shape and highlighted the fullness of her bosom, and the swell of her hips below her narrow waist. He could see what lean, muscled arms both sword and smithy had given her as she worked. Her hair had grown longer, and she wore it loose; it hung like black silk to her hips. She was frowning slightly as she worked, whether from concentration or annoyance at Elrohir’s chatter, he could not tell. But no face in the world was lovelier to him than this one.

And in that moment, all his war between desire and repulsion, sympathy and condemnation melted away.

All that Maeglin had been, past and present, all that Maeglin had done—all the darkness, the woundedness, the rage, the brilliance, the bitterness, the strength, the flashes of compassion, the arrogance, the valour, the treachery, the deaths of a hundred thousand Eldar, his own death—it all came together in the tall, slender maiden standing over an anvil, frowning in the morning sun.

And Glorfindel laid his struggle down. He had known this One he gazed at now for a hundred and nineteen _coranári_. And with all he was, _fëa_ and _hröa_ , he felt how all the strange paths of both their lives had brought him to this moment. Acceptance of all she was—and the _him_ she had once been—dawned upon his heart like a sunrise. It brought both acute anguish to his heart like the stabbing of a jagged blade, and a transcendent flood of tenderness and release that was close to rapture.

And it was no longer complicated. It was simple.

He would love her, regardless. He would believe in the goodness he felt lay within her, despite all evidence to the contrary. He would seek her happiness. He would watch over her. He might pine for her till the Second Music, unrequited. He might be hurt more than all the wounds his body had taken in two lives. So be it. It was what it was.

“Set your face as stone? By Eru, I know you can, you rare girl! You might be fashioned from stone as much as the _naugrim_.” Elrohir laughed. He was standing near Maeglin, leaning against the wall much as Glorfindel used to do when he visited Camaen. “But it sounds like a challenge I would relish!”

There was a bowl of berries and a pile of buttercups and cornflowers on the corner of a work table, and Elrohir was weaving the flowers into a garland that was almost finished. As he spoke those last words, he took a couple of berries and popped them into her mouth as she worked, before popping a few into his own. She accepted it as though it were commonplace between them.

Glorfindel’s blue eyes darkened. He stepped out from hiding and walked up the path.

“Give me a few berries,” said Elladan, who was sitting outside on a bench, reading a book, his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles. “And tell her about the time we tied Glorfindel’s hair to his bedpost as he slept.” The elder twin’s eyes stayed on the page as he took some berries from his brother’s hand.

“Well, yes, we tied Glorfindel’s hair to his bedpost. Then we stood at the foot of the bed—and shouted at the top of our lungs!”

“I always thought Glorfindel was the prankster, rather than the pranked,” she remarked, raising an eyebrow.

Both twins burst out laughing. “That shows you’ve been speaking to Erestor too much!” “Ah, now, _they_ have had a running battle since Lindon.” “I don’t recall Glorfindel ever pranking anyone else.” “He has many a fine adventure of his elfling days to share, however.” “Say, how about that time Glorfindel—”

“That is quite enough about Glorfindel for one day,” said Maeglin shortly. “Could you pass me those pliers, please.”

As Elrohir did so, he espied Glorfindel. With a shout, he flew down the path, followed closely by Elladan and enveloped the elflord in a hug that almost knocked him over.

“ _Ai!_ You’re back!” “You don’t know how much we missed you!” “We were just talking about you!” “So much has happened since you left.”

Over the twin-hug engulfing him, Glorfindel saw Maeglin’s eyes narrow and her mouth tighten. She bent her head and continued working on her armour.

The twins and Glorfindel exchanged news for some time, chiefly about Estel, then headed up the path to the smithy.

Maeglin raised her head and the eyes of the hero and his beloved traitor met.

The last time they had seen each other, she had dared him to put her in plate armour. It had happened so quickly. . .she had run, he had caught her in three seconds; he had grabbed her by the waist and lifted her off her feet; she had grabbed hold of a weapons rack which then fell over; he had pulled her clear of the collapsing rack and the lances and swords and quarterstaffs that had rained down with it; they had fallen over onto the floor with her on top of him, their limbs in a very interesting tangle, their faces a mere inch from each other, just as Elrond had flung the door open. They were both remembering the moment vividly, and flushing slightly. 

“ _Mae le’ovannen_ , Lord Glorfindel. Welcome home. It is good to see you again.” Her cold voice belied the touch of pink glowing in her cheeks.

 _Le’ovannen._ In the training room, over the winter, they had begun to use _gi_ instead of _le_. Her reversion to formal terms of address, her distancing of him, hurt.

“ _Mae le’ovannen_ , Lady Lómiel,” he said, matching her formality. “That is a fine looking piece of armour you’re making. But where is Camaen?”

Maeglin looked out over the meadow, and the twins pointed in the same direction. “There he is,” said the elder twin.

And there, walking under the apple trees, was Camaen hand in hand with Thalanes the healer.

“There certainly appear to have been a lot of changes since I left,” said Glorfindel, turning back to the smithy to see Elrohir setting the finished garland of buttercups and cornflowers on Maeglin’s hair.

“Elrohir! Not now,” she said testily. “I’m working! And you’re making me look a sight.”

Ignoring her protest, the younger twin arranged the flowers around her ears, and paused to examine his work critically. “What do you think?” he asked Glorfindel with a grin. “A sight worth coming home to, is she not?”

She scowled at Glorfindel and the peredhel twins.

“Beautiful. All ready for midsummer,” said Glorfindel in a stifled voice. He had carried the twins in his arms the day they were born, babysat them all through their elfling years, trained them as warriors, and loved them dearly, but at this moment he was itching to punch Elrohir in the face.

_If it meant her happiness, would you step aside and bless it?_

_Yes. Even though it slay me. Yes._

“We feared you would not be back for the Gates of Summer, Glorfindel.”

“It never is as enjoyable when you are absent.”

“Lindir will be delighted to see you!”

“And we shall get to hear you sing of Gondolin again.”

Startled, Glorfindel looked at the twins. “Sing...of Gondolin? You mean...?”

“Yes, it’s the Gondolin festival this year again, for Tarnin Austa!” said Elrohir

“It is about time. It has been over two _yéni_ since the last one,” said Elladan.

Glorfindel was aghast.

 

It had begun early in the Third Age. The two hundred years after the grief and loss of the war had seen a mass exodus to Aman. But amid the sorrow, hope had flowered—and new life. Weddings. A new Lady at Imladris. A sudden proliferation of babies across the valley, including the birth of three children to its Lord. As they put behind the war and the darkness, the Imladrim began to revel in song, and dance, and staging plays, and holding feasts and festivals with a vengeance.

As they gathered around a warm hearth one day in _hrívë_ , Lindir mentioned shyly that he had been composing songs and writing some scenes on the Fall of Gondolin.

“I thought to have them performed this Tarnin Austa,” the minstrel said, eyeing Glorfindel a little nervously. “But I was not sure how you might feel about it.”

Elrond’s eyebrow raised slightly. “Songs and re-enactments of the Fall of Gondolin? At Tarnin Austa?”

“Er—yes. It seemed most apt. I wanted to honour the heroism and courage of the warriors on that Tarnin Austa, so long ago, and to celebrate what was the fairest and most glorious city in Beleriand.”

“I think that may touch too close for comfort,” said Elrond slowly as he leaned back in his armchair, looking at the balrog slayer. They all looked at him.

Glorfindel, sprawled on a chaise longue with baby Arwen chewing on the ends of his gold hair as she lay on his chest, had a slightly perplexed expression on his fair face.

“I am sorry, it was a bad idea,” said Lindir hurriedly.

“No no, not at all—I am merely trying to discern how I feel,” said Glorfindel. “I see no reason why we should not do this. Although I honestly have no idea how it would feel to relive Gondolin’s fall again, I do appreciate the intent and idea, truly.”

“Would it give you nightmares, do you think?” asked Erestor, almost hopefully.

Glorfindel looked thoughtful. “It would be interesting to find out. I have had no nightmares about it ever since I was rebodied. I have never even dreamt once of the balrog.”

Murmurs of incredulity from the others.

“It’s true. In fact, I never have any nightmares at all.”

That was one of the things that Erestor found supremely annoying about the chosen servant of the Valar. How could anyone be so completely free of fears and neuroses? So...so happy and almost carefree, after surviving the most horrendous wounds at the end of the Second Age? It almost offended the councillor’s sensibilities. He thought he would have liked the once-slain hero more were he clothed in a more tragic aura, were he just a tad more angst-ridden.

“We could celebrate the food and culture of Gondolin as well,” Glorfindel said, brightening, for he could seldom stay pensive for long. He pulled his hair out of the baby’s mouth, and balanced her on one hand, where she sat cooing delightedly, perfectly poised and quite thrilled. He smiled and kissed her little cheek. “I can think of any number of lovely poems and songs that were lost with our libraries, and a dozen delicious dishes I’ve not tasted in four thousand years to put on a menu.”

“Lovely!” said Celebrían, as Arwen grabbed another handful of golden hair. Glorfindel tugged his hair out of her tiny hands, nuzzled her tummy to distract her, and blew a long, loud raspberry into it to her great glee.

 _“Gof!”_ she said at the end of a long gurgle of laughter.

“Did you hear that? Her first word!” the golden-haired warrior said rapturously. “And it’s my name! Yes, you _clever_ girl! _”_

“ _Gof?_ That’s not _remotely_ your name! It’s not even a _word_ of any sort!” Erestor sputtered crossly, watching Arwen pull at Glorfindel’s golden locks. “It’s just a—a random baby noise!”

Elrond and Celebrían, who had taken the honours for the first words of Elladan and Elrohir respectively, merely beamed indulgently at their daughter and their golden-haired friend.

“Yes it _is_ , it _is_ my name! _”_ The warrior smiled into the infant’s tiny grey eyes. “You tell Erestor, blossom. What’s my name?”

“ _Gof!”_ she said triumphantly to Erestor with a toothless grin every bit as dazzling as Glorfindel’s.

“Who is your _favouritest_ elf in all Eä, blossom? After _Ada_ and _Nana_ , of course.”

_“Gof!”_

“Who is an annoying, obnoxious ass?” Erestor cut in irately.

“Oooh, such language!” Glorfindel covered the baby’s ears. “Shame on you, Erestor.”

Lindir laughed. “I would value your criticism of what I have written,” said the minstrel to Glorfindel.

“It would be my pleasure. I shall work on the menu with the chefs,” said Glorfindel, as Arwen tried to detach one of his braids from his scalp.

“And we should have a re-enactment of the battle with the balrog,” said Erestor.

“Only if _you_ are the balrog,” said Glorfindel to him, sweetly, and cuddled a blissful baby to his chest.

 

The song the twins had looked forward to Glorfindel singing was the opening of the festivities. Glorfindel’s song would paint a picture of the white city—its towers, squares, fountains; the seven gates; the vale of Tumladen; the encircling mountains. No one could describe it with as much love and knowledge as he did. And none had enjoyed each of the Gondolin festivals, held every two to three _yéni_ , more than he. 

But now, the balrog slayer stared blankly at the twins. “But I did not _know_ about it—I am not _ready_ —”

“But no one knows the song as well as you! You composed it.”

“You have never needed any preparation before.”

If the hero was sure of one thing, it was that the last thing in Eä he wanted right now was to relive the Fall of Gondolin. And he was certain, even without looking at the traitor, that she felt even more sickened than him by all this. He had watched her face during her first two Midsummers here, and noted how she had vanished for the last few. He had been torn between sympathetic pain at the anguish he sensed in her, and utter relief and thankfulness for the guilt-stricken, remorseful heart that bespoke. She must have been suffering agonies here since the preparations for the festival began.

“Surely,” said the balrog slayer desperately, “surely Lindir has chosen others to take my place, by now.”

“Yes, but they would step down with pleasure once they know you have returned.”

“The chefs will be overjoyed that you are here to taste their dishes!”

“And the elflings will be delighted that you are here to see the re-enactment of your duel with the balrog!” That too was a tradition. The youngest toddler always acted as Glorfindel, and three elflings clambered with glee into an oversized costume to play the balrog. It was always a crowd pleaser, and usually hilarious. This time might be the last time. The youngest elfling was now no toddler, but already a little fellow of nineteen. And he looked to be the last elfling born in Imladris. “They have been rehearsing for weeks.”

The battle between Tuor and Maeglin was always re-enacted by elflings as well, with a rather vile looking puppet playing the traitor since no one wanted the role. Glorfindel felt sick at the thought of it. _Please, Eru, let not the twins mention that now._

Thankfully, they did not. Glorfindel glanced at Maeglin. She was frowning and working on the armour as though her life depended on it. Her face was even paler than usual.

He wished, helplessly, that he could offer her some form of comfort. But even if he could find any means of doing so, comfort coming from him would probably count to her as none.

Excusing himself, he left the smithy, collected his belongings from the stables, and went into the house.

 

After Glorfindel had concluded his report on Mirkwood and Dale to Elrond, as he rose to leave, Elrond suddenly said, “Lómiel has come of age, by the way. I thought you might wish to know.”

Glorfindel looked at his lord in surprise, and remained silent.

Elrond looked down at his desk and carefully arranged some papers. “After observing her over the year, we arrived at the conclusion that she has attained her full stature, and, er—probably had for a while, actually. I realized that Arwen had been passing her some dresses to wear for a couple of years, and the fit had not changed in all that time. Hence, we celebrated her majority with all the traditional rites this _tuilë.”_ Because no one besides Glorfindel knew her actual begetting day, the household always celebrated it on the day she had come to Imladris.

Glorfindel was not quite sure how to respond. “Thank you for informing me,” he said politely. “I am sorry to have missed the ceremony.”

“Well, it does mean that should there be any desire to do so on your part, she may be paid court to.”

Elrond saw a brief flash of fire in the blue eyes.

“It would appear that Elrohir is already doing so,” said Glorfindel in an even voice.

Elrond was taken aback. “I am not aware that my son is paying court to anyone, Glorfindel.”

“I have seen couples court for seven millennia, Elrond. When an eligible _ellon_ feeds an eligible _elleth_ with berries from his own hand and weaves and places flower garlands on her hair—especially when he has never done so for _any_ other _elleth_ in the two thousand eight hundred and thirty-one _coranári_ of his life—I assure you it looks like he is paying court.” _And if you do not wish to have your great-uncle as your law-daughter you would put a stop to this right now,_ he thought.

Elrond knit his brows slightly. “I do not believe it means what you think. She saved his life in the winter—“

“What?”

“When they were ambushed in the southern Coldfells—“

“Ambushed? She has been riding out with the guards?” Glorfindel blanched. _“Yrch?”_

“No, it was after the _yrch_. They were riding home from a successful raid when they ran into a blizzard, and were attacked by a snow troll. She saw a large rock going straight at Elrohir, and pushed him out of the way. Her armour took some damage, but thankfully she was not crushed.”

“Oh Eru and all his Ainur!! Not _crushed??_ Was she _injured??”_

“Four broken ribs, some internal bleeding, a puncture to the lung—”

“ _Broken ribs??_ Internal _bleeding?_? A _puncture_ to _a lung??”_ The fearless warrior’s voice rose by an octave, and he looked as though he was going to faint. “Which lung?” he asked, as though it mattered.

Elrond eyed the warrior with concern. “The right lung, caused by a fracture in a middle right rib. Not a large puncture, thankfully, so surgery was not required. She has fully recovered of course, and Elrohir visited her often while she was in the healing halls. They have become close friends. He is grateful. As am I.”

“Is she still going out on patrols?”

“She is, as said, fully recovered, so yes. And the twins may include her in their orc-hunting party, now she is well again.”

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” Glorfindel muttered darkly under his breath.

“So,” said Elrond carefully. “You do care for her still.”

Glorfindel did not speak for a while. He imagined himself paying court to Maeglin. It was hard to imagine any good outcome. He may have risen above the ancient enmity that lay between them—but she made it abundantly clear she had not. The coldness of their recent meeting gave him no hope. He had surrendered to loving her. But he could not see himself winning her.

“Should there be mutual affection between Lómiel and any worthy _ellon_ , I would wish them joy,” he said finally. “And there can be no doubt Elrohir is worthy.”

It was all the answer Elrond needed. “I never thought I would see the day. So you love her. Court her then!”

Glorfindel winced, and shook his head. “Elrond, please—”

“If your concern is Elrohir, I know my son, and I do not believe his heart is for any maiden. I shall speak to him—”

“Oh no. Please do not. And please, let us never speak of this again.” And with a bow Glorfindel quickly took his leave.

Elrond was mildly baffled after the golden warrior left his study.

That had not quite gone as he had thought it would.

But on the bright side, at least the balrog slayer did not appear to have any more paranoid delusions about reborn traitors of Gondolin lurking in Imladris in the guise of elfmaids.

 

Over a year ago, when the reborn traitor had discovered that the reborn hero of Gondolin had left Imladris without even a farewell, nothing had prepared her for the complete devastation and loss that had struck her. Camaen never guessed that beneath her impassive demeanour, when he casually mentioned that Glorfindel was gone, she had felt as though her chest had been torn open and hacked at with a knife.

She had spent much of that morning feeling bereft, abandoned—even betrayed—pretending to work.

_You fool._

_You utter fool._

_How did you let this happen?_

_How did you not guard your heart?_

The desire she had toyed with, foolishly, had now turned upon her, burgeoned into a monster beyond her control.

And she needed no other reason to hate him now but the acute pain in her heart the very thought of him brought. And the abyss of terror that lurked beneath.

She threw herself once again into her craft. And into training with the guard under the watchful eye of the twins. Before long, they had her riding out with them and Estel on orc hunts. She unloaded her pain through the force of her hammer upon the anvil, and through the rage she unleashed upon the creatures of darkness with her sword.

She would craft chains to lock up her heart stronger than those that had bound her in Angband.

_I am iron and stone. I will feel nothing._

By _hrivë_ , she felt herself much recovered. She felt little besides annoyance when he was spoken of—and he was spoken of frequently.

It was good that he had left when he did. It had been a close call.

She would never let it happen again.

And this morning, on Midsummer’s Eve, she had passed the test. There had been the initial awkwardness, given the circumstances of their last meeting. But she had really felt next to nothing.

And now he was heading up the path to the smithy again. She was still strong. Still stone. She glanced at him and nodded almost indifferently, and continued grinding the sword in her hand. Camaen, who was feeding the furnace at the back of the smithy, gave the warrior a cheerful wave, and continued to stoke the fire, whistling as he worked.

Glorfindel thought, _You have also gone back to sword making, I see, Lómion._ But all he said was, “A beautiful sword, Lady Lómiel.”

“It will be passable after another round of tempering,” she replied. “The problem is materials. It’s not easy to get our hands on good ore here.”

 _I am sure you miss the mines of Anghabar,_ he thought. He said, “I heard you have joined the patrols.”

She arched an eyebrow at him, remembering his objection. “You disapprove?”

“I heard you almost got killed.” _Again_ , he added in his thoughts.

“But not in combat,” she said. “The snow trolls were unexpected.”

“You need to be faster next time. I shall train you.”

“I do very well training with the guard under Captain Emlindir, _hîr-nín_. But I thank you for the offer.”

“Have you made yourself a good sword?”

“Not yet. Standard issue still.” She turned the blade she held in her hand, critically.

“I heard that you celebrated your coming of age while I was away. I have a gift for you.”

Not the crafting tools he had bought from the dwarves. That could wait. As he had left Elrond’s study, he had realized full well that he could not stop her from going on the patrols. Not only because of how it would look, but because he could not deny the fierce warrior in her blood, that he both loved and feared.

But he could give her a worthy weapon with which to defend herself.

It was not a gift given with intent to woo; he had little hope of success in that. But it _was_ a gift of love.

So now, he took out Idril’s sword in its scabbard from the thick cloth that wrapped it. It shone with blinding brilliance in the late sun as he unsheathed it. “It was made by a master smith in Gondolin.”

And he watched her face turn white and bleak.

Of course he had known she would recognize her own craftsmanship.

Five years before Gondolin fell, he had gone to the Lord of the Mole, and requested a fine sword for a lady. Not a decorative one. One for use in battle.

He had not said who it was for.

Earlier that spring, Idril had spoken to him, her eyes troubled. “I want you to teach me to fight,” she said, a note of darkness in her voice that he not heard in it before.

“Fight? You? Why, my princess?” he asked, his blue eyes surprised.

Her grey eyes glittered. “I had a dream last night. There is a shadow coming. Teach me to fight, Laurefindil. In my dream I saw I shall be needing it some day.”

She seldom had the gift of foresight, but he would not argue with her. So he had got the sword made by Maeglin, and in a chamber at her palace quarters, whilst two-year-old Eärendil slept in the afternoon, he had trained his _Ammë_ to fight.

And now, as soon as he saw Maeglin’s face when she saw the sword, he cursed himself inwardly and realized what a mistake he had made. Finally saw what he should have known a long time ago.

Why Idril had needed the sword. And what she had used it for.

That not long before Maeglin was killed, he would have seen that sword in the hand of his princess. As she had tried to kill him, to defend herself and her child.

He had not guessed. Idril, as she had related the fight to him through angry tears, had made no mention of using the sword. Neither had Pengolodh’s account, which Lindir had faithfully used as a source for his songs and plays.

Glorfindel rapidly re-constructed the scene in his head, now that seven thousand years of assumptions had been dismantled.

He saw his _Ammë_ , Eärendil pushed behind her, sword in hand, battling with the prince of Gondolin, protecting her own like a tigress, eyes flashing with steel and fire as he knew they could. He had seen that steely determination on the Way of Escape, as they fled the valley. He imagined the prince, full of desperate love, facing the point of the sword he himself had made.

_Forgive me, melmenya, I did not know._

But it was too late to withdraw the gift now without giving all away.

“It is an exceedingly well-crafted sword, and I would give it only to one worthy of it,” he said. “I believe you will use it well.”

He gently placed it on the table near her, and walked away.

She was running her fingers over the blade as he left. Over the small mark on the blade, just below the hilt, where she knew the craftsman had left his stamp. The stamp of the Lord of the Mole.

And her heart, her wayward, unreasoning heart, was hurting as a heart only hurts at the cruelty of a lover.

 

****************************************************************************************************** 

 Glossary

ohtar [Q] – warrior

hantanyet [Q] – thank you between equals/familiars

hröa [Q] – body

coranári [Q] – solar years

naugrim [S] - dwarves

melmenya [Q] – my love

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) On elven coming of age – at the age of about 50 they reach their adult height, so that should be the equivalent of us mortals reaching adult height at about 16. If Maeglin was returned to Ennor in a body with the physical maturity of a 15 year old, I think that by this chapter she would be the equivalent of a 17-year-old.
> 
> 2) On Dúnedain coming of age—since they have greater longevity than lesser mortals, I imagine that they would mature later as well. Keeping in mind that in medieval times, boys of 12 or 13 would venture into battle, I imagine that Estel/Aragorn at 20 might be the equivalent of a 15- or 16-year-old mortal. In the Middle Ages, a boy of that age could already be a battle-hardened veteran and a father.
> 
> 3) Sorry for taking liberties with the Arwen-Aragorn love story - I have her come back to Imladris every five to seven years, so she would have seen him grow up and he has a crush on her from the time he’s eleven. I personally don’t believe in love at first sight, although the exigencies of this story required it for Glorfindel and Maeglin. In Maeglin’s case, being desperately and helplessly in love with Idril was probably the only way to exonerate him from being a sicko and a perv. In Glorfindel’s case, I wanted him to understand Maeglin by experiencing what he felt for Idril. And I like making golden-haired balrog slayers suffer. 
> 
> 4) Quite some time ago, I read a Gondolin fic “Beneath the Light”. I think the snippet where the Lords of Gondolin discuss Tuor’s message in the Hall of Council must have been influenced by that.
> 
> 5) Asfaloth - I love that horse, so I painted him and Glorfindel having a happy, relaxed moment a while back - check it out if you like! :) http://annamare.deviantart.com/art/The-horse-and-his-elf-559228125 
> 
> 6) Baby-balancing on one hand: tried and tested successfully by mere mortals with a year-old sweetie-pie named Ally.


	18. The Gates of Summer

The brown-haired elfling in the leaf-green robe carefully pushed his way through the rainbow-hued forest of shimmering robes gathered in the gardens before the great house. He made a face each time a hand reached out silently to rumple his hair or pat his cheeks as he passed by.

He was nineteen this year, the baby of the valley, and used to being made much of. Already he reached the waists of most of the elves surrounding him, but few of them seemed to have any respect for the dignity of a Balrog Slayer.

Finally, he squeezed past a group of maidens to the front of the crowd, and saw, on the raised terrace of the house, the Lord of Imladris standing in a fine robe of dark crimson silk embroidered with gold, with a golden circlet on his head. His daughter shimmered in white and silver at his left hand, fairest of all maidens to walk the earth, and his dashing twin sons, in midnight-blue and gold, stood at his right.

The great house was in darkness, but a few lanterns decking the terraces cast a soft yellow glow, and in the gardens, the trees glimmered with many-coloured lights.

Above, the stars shone white as they wheeled in their patterns. Below, the star-children shimmered with faint silver light as they silently thronged the terraces, the gardens, the lawns and meadows, arrayed in their most resplendent festive robes. Most stood almost as still as statues in the unbroken silence. A few strolled slowly along the garden paths and over bridges. Their glittering eyes were lifted to the heavens, and their keen ears, in the quiet of the night, were tuned to the faint harmonies of the stars. At this time of the year, in their blood, in their  _fëar_ , they felt more strongly the pulse of the starsong, the ancient beat and rhythm that had awakened their kind by the waters of Cuiviénien. When the starlight waned and the sky lightened, they would turn as one to face the east.

On the terrace, somewhere behind the family of Elrond, the sun already seemed to be rising.

The elfling’s eyes went to the tall lord who stood half-hidden behind Elrond, and whose bright hair cast the warm golden glow of a sunrise all about him. His robe was the blue of a twilit summer sky, and embroidered down the side was a beautiful pattern of flowers in golden thread and tiny sapphires the colour of his eyes. He stood straight and tall behind his lord—dutifully, as he had for millennia, ever since the founding of the elven realm in the valley. As he had stood with his fellow lords in Gondolin, at the side of Elrond’s great-grandfather.

The elfling hoped that Glorfindel might look his way, but the glittering blue eyes were distant and haunted in their expression, and gazing towards the north.

The hero of Gondolin had saluted the dawn at Tarnin Austa thousands of times since the Fall, and only in the last nine years had he been haunted by thoughts of that other Midsummer’s morning, when dragon and balrog fire had lit the skies north over the Echoriad, and the black armies of Morgoth had swarmed through the secret pass.

As flames had spread across the northern slopes, cries of fear and horror had risen on the city walls…

The Lord of the Golden Flower had turned quickly to speak to Tuor next to him, and his eyes had met the eyes of the prince who stood behind.

And the traitor smiled as their eyes locked. A smile that was mocking, cruel. Triumphant.

In that fleeting moment, first came confusion and disbelief—

_No. No, it is not possible, he could not..._

Then came horror so overwhelming, Glorfindel’s blood seemed to turn to ice in his veins. Ecthelion and Egalmoth stepped in between at that moment, speaking urgently, and blocked his view before he could recover.

“Treachery!” cried Glorfindel. “We are betrayed!” But even as he pushed the two lords aside, and would have charged forward to seize the traitor by the throat, Maeglin had vanished.

For the rest of that long and desperate day, amid the mustering of the troops, the fury and futility of the battles that followed and the urgency of the escape, Glorfindel had no more thought for the traitor.

His final thoughts as he had fallen had not been of the dark one. Indeed, he had not been capable of thought. _Flames. Searing pain._

And one transcendent moment of clarity and peace and hope just before the end:

_They will escape._

Six thousand years later, the hero and the traitor’s eyes met once again in the healing halls at Imladris.

And the traitor had smiled again.

Glorfindel had forgiven all in his brief time in the Halls of Mandos. But nothing was forgotten. In the twisting pain of his heart now, as the memory of two smiles wrenched it, he forgave again. And clung to the desperate belief that, whatever had transpired in Angband, whatever pact had been sealed between the prince and Morgoth, the one he loved, would always love, had repented. Why else did she shun Tarnin Austa? Why else would she flee each Midsummer?

_Where are you?_

_Where do you hide yourself, each year?_

Then Glorfindel caught a movement at the corner of his eye, and glanced over to see the youngest elfling, who had climbed the steps to the terrace, and was looking at him quizzically from between the skirts of Erestor and Lindir’s robes. With a smile, the balrog slayer beckoned the elfling closer, and the child with a cheeky smile quickly positioned himself next to his hero, as all the elves of the valley turned east to welcome the sun.

From behind the peaks of the Hithaeglir, another song rose and drowned out the melody of the stars. It sang to their  _fëar_ , a harmony hot and bright and fiery, its roaring cadence washing over them.

As the first rays of Anor poured over the mountains and touched their faces with golden warmth, fair elven voices rose in unison and sang in layered harmonies without instruments, their lilting and solemn cadences echoing with haunting beauty throughout the valley. And for a few moments, Glorfindel forgot all else and lost himself in the ancient Quenya of the verses, his voice lifting strong and pure and melodious.

As the last notes of the last song faded away, and the spell broke, he felt a small tug on his robe. He looked down with a smile at the bright little face grinning up at him.

“Why, Gwendir son of Galdir! You must have grown an inch at least since I saw you last!”

The lad pulled himself taller. “Indeed I have! I’m so happy you’re home, _Hîr_ Glorfindel! Will you watch me fight the balrog?” And the boy watched the elflord’s smile fade a little, and his face fell. “ _Naethen_. Does it make you sad, to remember how you died?”

“No, not that, little friend. But it does make me sad to remember all the others who died, and how they died.” As sprightly dances to pipe, flute and harp began on the lawns, and the Imladrim made their way to the long tables loaded with delicacies under the trees, the boy and the balrog slayer sat down at the top of the steps leading down to the gardens. “I was thinking I might go away for a few days.”

“ _Go away?_ But—but you’ve only just returned!”

“Well…there is something I need to do,” said Glorfindel. “But I truly regret that I shall miss your battle with the balrog. I know you will be splendid. Here—” the warrior reached up to the golden braids at the back of his head, and took out a sapphire and gold hair clasp in the shape of a flower, and gave it to the boy. “—Take this as my blessing.”

The boy’s eyes were wide and shining as he turned over the hair clasp in his hand. Then he grinned up at the balrog slayer. “ _Le hannon, hîr-nín!”_

“Does your costume have a helmet?”

“No—just a golden wig. It’s hot! And the armour too!” The boy made a face.

Glorfindel smiled, and taking the clasp from Gwendir’s palm, fastened it in the boy’s brown braids at the back of his head. “Wear this in that golden wig tonight and I’ll be with you in spirit. Do bravely, Lord of the Golden Flower! _To serve and to protect!”_ He saluted the boy, thumping his fist to his own chest.

“ _To serve and to protect!”_ The boy mirrored the salute.

“Go get that balrog for me. And if anyone has the impertinence to say that you should have tied up your hair, tell them to come and say it to my face.”

 

“Where is Glorfindel?” said Arwen, her lovely grey eyes searching the crowd.

“He was talking to Gwendir on the steps,” said Lindir.

But both boy and balrog slayer were gone.

“He was wearing the blue robe with golden flowers I made for him for the last Gondolin festival,” Arwen said with a smile.

“Very appropriate,” said Erestor as he served her some pastries on a plate. “He should have one of yellow celandines on gold cloth as well.”

“Oh, I do not think he would wear anything as loud as that now!” said Arwen with a musical laugh at the thought. “He would be so dazzling he would eclipse Anor!”

“Lómiel is not here again,” Elrohir observed. “I should not have teased her so, and vowed I would force her to dance.”

“She would not have come, regardless,” said Elladan. “You know how it has been, the past few years.”

“I have asked her why she shuns this feast so. And all she would say is there was no such tradition for Tarnin Austa where she was raised.”

Arwen looked at the younger of her two brothers with sparkling eyes. “You seem very fond of the fair young smith, brother. Is it more than gratitude?”

_Ah. Lómiel._

Elrond had always had his own guess as to her origins, after the night she had spoken Quenya to him in the healing halls. He had not heard her utter a single word in Quenya since, but he had puzzled over it a while.

After the War of Wrath and the ruin of Beleriand, bands of the remaining followers of the sons of Fëanor had fled over the Ered Luin, keeping to the remoter parts of Ennor just south of the Forodwaith, some as far east as Cuiviénen. Most had joined forces with tribes of the Avari, and in a few cases had established secret Noldorin settlements. Glorfindel had brought back news of such settlements to Elrond, from his travels, and that Lómiel was descended from these Fëanorians might be an explanation for her knowledge of Quenya. True, her Quenya had lacked Fëanor's lisp, but Elrond remembered that only Maedhros and Maglor themselves had used "th" consistently; a choice born of loyalty to their father. They had not imposed it on their own followers, many of whom had tended to favour "s" over the lisp... and many of whom had deserted the sons of Fëanor both after the Second and the Third Kinslayings…

The Third Kinslaying was not a memory Elrond liked to revisit.

Maeglin's secretiveness about her origins. Her taciturn temperament. Her strange Sindarin accent. Her skill with smithing. It all seemed to fit. This was not a theory Elrond would share with others in Imladris, however, given the lack of popularity of the Fëanorians, even in these latter days.

His younger son Elrohir was laughing at his sister’s question. “Assuredly I am grateful. She is an intriguing child—too grave, and too fierce and unsmiling for her years. But she is brave—and true. And have you not noted how troubled and sad she has been of late? I seek merely to cheer her.”

An elfmaid at Elrond’s elbow passed him a note. “ _Hîr_ Glorfindel asked me to pass you this, _Hîr_ Elrond.”

The Lord of Imladris opened it, read it, and sighed.

Written in Glorfindel’s bold, flowing hand, was a message begging that his lord would excuse his absence for a few more days. The balrog slayer felt himself unequal to dealing with the festivities or the reminders of the Fall of Gondolin at this time.

 

Now dressed in his white, grey and green hunting clothes—sword and knives at his belt—bow, arrows and travel pouch slung on his back—Glorfindel climbed up the northern slopes of the valley.

The passage of time is an enemy to a tracker, but his heightened elven senses allowed him to follow the faint trail still discernible almost half a day since she had passed by there. It was easy for him to guess that she might have stopped by the smithy first. From there, her light feet across the grassy meadow had left a trail still visible to his skilled eye. And as he ascended the slopes, wherever the trail disappeared, his _fëa_ melded with the surrounding earth and trees and heard the stones and very leaves murmuring of her passing by.

He did not intend to disturb nor approach Maeglin. It would likely do more harm than good, given their last encounter. There was in him a _need_ to know, to see that she was well, to perhaps watch over her a while, from a distance. Then he would go his way, and let her go hers. The encircling mountains were vast enough for both of them to hide away from the festivities a whole week without ever crossing paths. _The two refugees of Gondolin,_ he thought drily. A Gondolin festival was soon to be in full swing down in the valley, and the only two Gondolindrim in Ennor had fled to the hills.

And what would he do if she was not well?

 _I will deal with that when it comes,_ he thought, truly with no idea what he could do if confronted with a broken, miserable traitor.

Around him now rose stands of fir and pine.

And then, above the wind rushing through the trees—he heard the song. Somewhere on the lower slopes behind him. He stopped and listened for a while, welcoming the beauty of the mysterious voice like an old friend. _It has been a long while, sad one._

And then he heard, ahead of him, someone running downhill at a breakneck speed, through the trees. Straight towards him.

 

Maeglin had made her way into the mountains shortly after dinner the previous night. She had hoped that this year, once again, she would hear the Singer…but weary in spirit more than body, she had fallen asleep on the hillside, and dreamed. And it seemed almost inevitable, after the gift of the sword, that the dream would be of the fight with Idril.

_“Lómion? It was you! How could you do this? Traitor!!”_

Maeglin woke with a gasp, shaking, and Idril’s voice echoing in her head.

Dawn was breaking.

Had the Singer come by whilst she slept?

From the valley below she heard the song of the sun-salute rise from eight hundred voices.

Disappointed and morose, she seated herself on a rock and laid out some tools and small pieces of craft that she had brought along this year. Pieces of jewellery. She tried to work on them by the early morning light, but it was no use.

However, it was not the memory of Idril that tormented her now.

In her mind, she kept seeing the Lord of the Golden Flower’s face by lamplight on the walls of Gondolin. Behind the golden lord, in the distance, across the darkened valley of Tumladen, bursts of flame came from dragons as they swarmed over the mountaintops. As he stood before Maeglin in his white and gold robes, their eyes met.

And in that brief moment, the prince saw the fair face before him go from blank bewilderment, to shock, then utter horror. He _knew_. The light in his glittering blue eyes had grown ice-cold with the realization, and as they narrowed, his mouth had set in a hard, angry line.

_Traitor._

And that had been Maeglin’s last sight of Glorfindel, before Imladris.

And why was it that the memory of Glorfindel’s face should now hurt far more than the memory of Idril’s anger and condemnation? Hurt so much she could not work?

Cursing under her breath, Maeglin packed away her tools and materials and walked towards a hillslope down which three waterfalls spilled. She was careful to keep away from the edge of the sheer cliffs, but drew near till the roar of cascading waters was deafening, and a fine spray from the torrent soaked her through.

She did not understand why the gift of the sword hurt her so much. Glorfindel, after all, had not a clue who she was. It had been an ignorant, clumsy, though deeply ironic gift.

Of all the proud works of the Lord of the Mole, had only this survived the ruin of Gondolin and the drowning of Beleriand? A hilt he had made, gripped once by the hands he had desired. A blade he had forged, that had tasted his own blood. Idril had succeeded in scoring his arm and his cheek as they had duelled.

Maeglin had wanted to fling the accursed blade into the furnace…but had been unable to bring herself to do it. Had set it down finally as though it burned her flesh. Had wrapped it in thick cloth and thrown it into a corner. She knew not what she would do with the gift, except leave it there in the smithy to mock her.

_And what of the giver?_

She struggled against the ache in her throat, the heaviness in her chest. _No. Damn him._ She did not want to even think further of him. She refused to think of him.

The sun over Imladris valley was higher in the sky now. Maeglin moved away from the waterfalls and sat in a pool of warm sunlight to dry off. She heard the high, fierce, lonely cry of an eagle over the song of the waters.

And something else.

Faint and distant, it came, a thin thread of lilting melody, from further down on the hillslopes.

Heart beating faster, she went towards it. She descended through pines and firs, fearing the song would end ere she could find its source. She could hear the lament more clearly now, the voice more beautiful than she had remembered, almost beautiful beyond what she could bear. As it had the first time, the lament once again pierced her to the depths of her dark soul, releasing her pain through the tears that began to trickle down her face.

The branches caught at her hair and clothes, but she did not heed them as she pushed past them. She went through a thick stand of firs and burst into a clearing, slipping and sliding down a slope.

And saw him. Right before her.

Leaning backwards and flailing her arms frantically, she tried to brake her descent, but momentum sent her barrelling right into him, and he caught her.

And the song ceased.

For a moment they stood wrapped in a clumsy embrace, her tear-stained cheek against his chest, his arms around her. Then she became aware that her hands were clutching him, and quickly pushed herself out of his arms, stumbling backwards. _Be stone. Be stone!_ She could still feel his arms and the strength of his chest. Her unbraided black hair half-curtained her mortified face. Turning away, she furtively brushed away her tears.

“What are you doing here?” she blurted out, astonished, angry, and not quite able to look him in the face. Irrationally, she blamed him for the disappearance and loss of the Singer, and was working herself up into a fury against him. _First the sword. Now this._ He was the source of nothing but hurt, and trouble. She was iron and stone once again, strong and disdainful.

“I might ask the same of you,” said Glorfindel mildly, trying not to smile. He could have hidden when he heard her approach. He could have stepped aside. But he had not wanted to. He had let her fall right into his arms, and was still euphoric over the unexpected collision. And tickled by how Maeglin—she of the princely poise and cat-like grace—had slid down the slope in the most awkward and undignified fashion, a look of wild panic and surprise on her tear-stained face. He had thought it most endearing.

“Why are you not at the feast?” she demanded.

“I did not feel like it,” he said simply.

She glared at him, unconvinced. “You love the feasts and festivals. I thought you never miss any if you can help it.”

He laughed. “I have lived for over six thousand years, young one. That is a lot of feasts and festivals. It would not kill me to miss one.” He looked her in the eyes, and smiled. “I shall not ask your reason for being here, if you do not ask me mine.”

Her anger evaporated even as she grasped at it in vain.

“Surely they will be missing you.”

“They may,” he agreed nonchalantly.  

“I thought you were to sing tonight.”

“I have excused myself. Lindir has others who are more than able to sing in my place.” His eyes were on her glossy black hair as it shone in the morning light. “If you will allow me—” He reached out a hand and lightly brushed out some fir and pine needles that were trapped in her tresses. _How soft it feels, like silk_.

Taken aback, she gaped at him for a moment. _“Gi hannon,_ ” she said, a little awkwardly.

“ _Glassen_ ,” he said, his eyes taking in her trim figure in the dark grey and green hunting garb she was wearing. He had never seen her in that outfit before, and her wardrobe never having been extensive, he had known every single piece in it a year ago. He wondered if anyone had inspired her to take more interest in her attire in his absence. In Gondolin, the Lord of the Mole had had the most minimalist sense of fashion, and had flown into a rage whenever his long-suffering valet had attempted to sneak in some colour or embellishments into his plain, perpetually black wardrobe. In Imladris, Lómiel had seemed not to care one whit about what she wore, getting by entirely on cast-off clothes either picked out from the storage rooms or passed to her by others such as Thalanes or Estel or Arwen.

Had the Evenstar, who had arrived in Imladris in spring, decided to overhaul the fair smith’s wardrobe? Or—he thought more darkly—was it Elrohir, who paid far more attention to dress and fashion than his twin, and who generally chose whatever the pair would wear?

Glorfindel’s eyes were lingering a little too long on Maeglin’s chest. He caught himself and quickly looked away. Her cheeks had begun to burn under his scrutiny. She wanted to punch him in the face. She wanted to feel his arms again. They had felt strong, warm. Safe…

 _No, no_ , _no!_ _I am stone. Stone. Iron…You stupid cow—get away from him. Now!_

But there was one question she was burning to ask.

“The singer we heard just now…” she said. “Who was he?”

“Ah yes, the mysterious, wandering singer of the hills,” said Glorfindel, his ears still a little red, and relieved to have something to talk about. “I have tried a number of times to find him, over the years, but I have always failed.”

“ _You_ failed?” she could barely mask her surprise.

“Everyone who has ever tried has failed. The twins attempted it a few times as well. His songs weave spells that confuse and confound all efforts to draw close to him. We ended up going in circles, or suddenly finding ourselves in odd parts of the valley we could not even recollect making our way to.”

“Does he not live here?”

“Not in Imladris. Nowhere, I think. He is a wanderer. He comes and goes, and there is no pattern to it. He may not be heard for a few centuries, then he may sing almost daily for a brief season. I do not believe he ever stays in the valley more than a month at a time. It was a joy and a surprise to hear him today. He does tend to like being here during Tarnin Austa.”

“Have you ever seen him?” she asked.

“Only from afar, twice—a shadow in a dark cloak…” He gazed in the direction they had last heard the song. “Such sorrow, such loneliness. It is a wonder he has not faded from the grief and burden we hear in his song, after so many millennia.”

“ _Millennia?_ But who is he?”

“Can you not guess, from the words of his song?”

The black eyes flashed with annoyance. “I cannot,” she said bitingly, “being only an ignorant Nandorin maid. Tell me, _please_. Who is he?”

Glorfindel smiled a little teasingly. Rarely did he have anything she actually wanted. “The tale is a sad one. Too sad for Midsummer.”

 _Sadder than Gondolin?_ she almost said sardonically. “I should like to know, all the same.”

“It is not a tale for morning and sunlight. If you can wait, I will tell you by starlight.”

Was that an invitation to spend Midsummer’s day with him? _The sorry ass,_ she thought, as she had thought many times over the past nine years. _If he only knew whose company it was that he sought._ But to her dismay, she felt something tug within her. That wanted to stay.

“I believe there may be others who will tell me the tale by any light,” she said coldly, thinking to ask Elrohir at the next opportunity. “I shall be on my way and detain you no further, _hîr-nín._ _No vaer i arad_.” And with a curt bow, she quickly stalked off in the direction the Singer had last been heard.

“ _No vaer i arad_ , _híril-nín,”_ he called after her. “And please have a care should you venture into the caves—they have bears, occasionally.”

After she had gone, he wondered if he should follow her.

Then he sighed, regretting his coyness regarding the Singer. Well, he had found Maeglin, and she seemed to be well enough. He would give her the space she desired. Let her go east. He would head west. But first, he sat down on a rock on the hillside, took the arrows from his quiver, and began to inspect each of them carefully. It was not the quiver he had travelled with recently, but another he had not used for over a year, and some maintenance was in order before he began hunting.

He was grooming the feather fletches on one of the arrows when he became aware that she had returned. He could sense her even though she stood out of his sight, hiding behind a tree. Watching.

He took his time with the arrows, put the good ones back in his quiver, strung his bow, and tested its draw…

Then, swifter than thought, he spun round, shot an arrow up into the branches of a pine, and sprang forward to see where his prey had fallen.

A small, startled cry, hastily smothered, came from behind the tree.

Maeglin stood there with a dead squirrel shot through with an arrow at her feet. It had tumbled down out of the pine upon her head. Her wide, startled eyes met his and she blushed angrily at having been discovered. She stooped to pick up the squirrel, and handed it to him.

“I wished to ask where the caves you spoke of could be found,” she said stiffly. “For I have found none thus far, though I have sought them.”

Glorfindel eyes were sparkling with amusement as he smiled. “I shall show you later. Would you care to join me for a meal, _híril nín?”_

 

As Maeglin fashioned a spit and skewer from some greenwood, she watched as Glorfindel skilfully skinned and gutted the squirrel, whistling softly to himself as he did—a cheerful little song she remembered being popular with the children of Gondolin as they played.

She wondered what she was doing. _Why did you agree to the meal? You are not even hungry. Have you lost your senses?_

“You said there could be bears. I never knew there were bears in the valley,” she said.

“Very rarely,” said Glorfindel, stuffing some herbs he had gathered into the squirrel and pouring a little wine from a flask over it. “There is a family of them that roams the slopes, mostly at night, and they are very shy. They are friendly to us, so there is generally no need to fear. But they can be startled when taken by surprise, and behave a little unpredictably.”

“I did not say I feared them,” she said, a little too quickly and sharply.

In Maeglin’s childhood memories of his seventh year, a terrifying encounter in the deep woods with an enraged, wounded bear was inextricably tangled with his father’s hard hand brought down in punishment for wandering out alone. And ever since then, the roar of a bear and the raised hand and voice of his father had been one in his mind. Whenever Maeglin had journeyed to Anghabar or approached a cave, pushed though it was to the far recesses of his mind, an uneasy fear of both bears and his father had lurked deep within. Most of his ursine encounters during his years in Gondolin had been peaceable and uneventful. But there was the humiliating memory of a hunt with some of the lords. Maeglin had frozen when he ran into a large, bellowing black bear with a thorn in its paw. Ecthelion and Glorfindel had rescued the prince, the former pulling him out of danger while the latter soothed the bear, pulled out the thorn and nursed the paw. In Gondolin, they neither hunted nor ate bears, who like the eagles were enemies of orcs and wargs, and who guarded the mountains surrounding the city.

Glorfindel, starting the fire, was remembering that hunt as well. “If you do not fear bears, you are a brave lass. Many maidens in the valley would be quite nervous around a bear, friendly though they might be to the Quendi.”

Warm, moving patterns of sunlight dappled the ground around them as they sat beneath the branches of tall, gnarled fir trees that shielded their fire from the wind. The midsummer sun had grown hot and the heat from the fire did not help. They had both removed their hunting jackets and sat in their thin summer tunics, their sleeves folded up. She could hear the distant rushing music of a waterfall. Were these the slopes surrounding Tumladen, and she still the Lord of the Mole, Glorfindel would probably suggest going for a swim or diving into waterfall pools. She remembered several such outings. Glorfindel was almost always the first into the water. He could swim like a fish, and loved water fights. She was remembering him in all his natural glory as she watched him set a pan with some herbs, edible roots and water beneath the roasting squirrel to catch the drippings. And as she did, she felt herself grow hot with more than the fire or sunshine.

Shaking herself free of the memories, Maeglin focused fiercely on the squirrel fat dripping into the pan. “I shall clean the skin,” she said abruptly. Taking up the squirrel’s grey pelt, which lay beside Glorfindel, she half-turned away from him, and began cleaning the skin rather vigorously, rubbing in some salt to help preserve it.

Glorfindel gazed at her profile as he turned the spit and basted the skewered squirrel occasionally with a little wine. He had been surprised when she had chosen to stay, and he was now both delighted and troubled. Never in her nine years in the valley had they shared a relaxed moment like this. No smithy, no Camaen. No swords, no hauberks. Under the blue summer skies on this open mountainside, the tension he had felt during their midwinter sword training had melted away.

And at the same time, Glorfindel had by now convinced himself that she was Elrohir’s intended. He had known the peredhel twin since his birth, and what he had witnessed at the smithy was, for Elrohir, the closest to flirtation the balrog slayer had ever seen. And he had convinced himself, with deepest anguish, that Maeglin loved Elrohir in return. Had she not accepted his offerings of berries and flowers? Had she not almost given her life for him? Had there not been an air of familiarity, of _understanding_ between them at the smithy?

He cut off bits of squirrel meat that cooked faster, like the shanks, and served them to her.

“How is it?”

“Delicious,” she said with some surprise, discovering appetite unexpectedly. She had not eaten since breakfast the previous day. The meat was sweet and juicy as she had not believed a roasted squirrel could be. She gave him a quizzical look, knowing full well that the Lord of the Golden Flower, like the Lord of the Mole, had not been known as a cook in his first life.

Knowing her thoughts, Glorfindel smiled as he continued turning the spit. “Over several millennia of travel I have had to learn to cook in the wild. And I have learned to do it rather tolerably. Especially if I run out of this.”  He fished out a folded leaf from his pack, unwrapped it to show a small quarter of a wafer, and offered it to her. “Lembas from Lothlórien.”

“Very nice,” she said, as she nibbled some of it. “Better than other waybreads I have tried.” The variety her father had packed for their journeys to the Ered Luin had been much heavier, and not as palatable.

“There are none who make it better than the Galadhrim. But sometimes I am on the road much longer than I planned, and then I hunt and cook.”

How, thought Glorfindel, was it possible for anyone to be so happy and so wretched at the same time? He was giddy with gladness at her nearness, and that she was neither scowling nor taciturn but actually talking to him amicably. She could, the moment the meal was done, decide she had had enough of his company and take off. He was praying to Eru she would not.

 _If this is a dream,_ he thought, _it is a most pleasant one. Please, Eru, let it last. I will not ask for more than this—just to have this time with her, as long as it can last._

And yet, even as he gazed entranced at her, as she relished her portion of squirrel, he told himself he must not desire one who was almost another’s bride. Twisting in the knife deeper, he imagined the wedding. The blessings. And thinking how he would always keep her secret safe. He would tell Elrond that all he had said was an absurdity, a delusion. No one would ever guess her past.

As she ate, Maeglin was thinking in turn of the limited and less than pleasant journeys of her life. The travels to Belegost and Nogrod in the company of her surly father and his hard fist, his words few but harsh. The flight from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin. The march to and from the battleplains of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.

The road from the Echoriad to Angband…

Glorfindel saw her black eyes grow distant and anguished and her chewing slow to a standstill, and guessed that some dark memory disturbed her. He went to the rescue by launching into some of his travel tales. His words vividly painted the desolate ruins of Himring off the north western coast, droll encounters with dwarves in the Iron Hills, glimpses of the peace-loving hobbits of the Shire, and his riding the broad plains with the proud horse-lords of Rohan. His stories were lively and she continued to listen raptly long after they had finished eating. And for once she did not think in annoyance that the golden-haired warrior talked too much.

After the fire had been put out, and the squirrel bones laid to rest in the earth beneath the firs, she sat in the shade of some nearby pines and began to whittle on a piece of wood with a knife, and he whetted his hunting knives on a stone and watched her surreptitiously, admiring her skill. Her sharp eyes caught him watching, and ever competitive, she challenged him to carve a shape out of a lump of pine wood together with her. He loved a contest as much as she did, and his eyes gleamed as he agreed.

“First to finish wins?” he said, as she cut two pieces of pine wood to the same size and shape, for fairness.

“There has to be skill, not just speed.” She tossed him his chunk of pine. “The other must be able to guess what it is instantly.”

“We trust each other to be honest, then.” And in this, at least, he did trust her.

“Naturally.” She smiled like a cat, and held out two woodcarving knives from her tool pouch. “Choose your tool.”

So they whittled away with their knives, he sitting high in the branches of a tree above whistling to himself, feeling the wind rock him gently, and she sitting on a log beneath.

She tossed up to him a beautiful carving of a horse, and he tossed down to her his completed masterpiece.

“Why, it is Asfaloth!” he said, gazing with great delight at the stallion sitting on his palm. “To the life!”

She peered dubiously at the shape on her palm. “What  _is_  this? A balrog or a bat?”

“Neither!” he said indignantly. “An eagle!”

At which she laughed so hard, the tears ran from her eyes and she almost fell off her log.

“I concede defeat,” he said. “But at least you knew those were wings.”

“Just barely. Let me show you what an eagle should look like!” And with a glint in her eyes, she took her knife to his carving.

He kept Asfaloth carefully in his waist pouch, and smiled lovingly down at her from his tree as she rectified his handiwork.

And he reflected that whatever few talents he may have inherited from his father, sculpting was clearly not one.

When it was past noon, they journeyed east through the hills, occasionally hearing snatches of music from the valley, and bursts of distant song. They moved swiftly, and for a moment both could imagine they were once again prince and tutor in the hills around Tumladen, lightly leaping over logs, running down and climbing up slopes. It had been a time when Glorfindel had made every effort to break through the walls of aloofness the prince erected around himself. And failed, not realizing then how intense a dislike and jealousy Maeglin bore towards him. But now, it felt as though those walls were finally coming down. They did not speak as they journeyed. Neither did he dare insult her pride by offering his hand when she struggled on an ascent. But the old tension and enmity seemed to have evaporated in the summer sunlight. Racing through the winds that swept the hills, and under clear, cerulean heavens, both of them lived in the moment, free and unfettered, refusing to think of either the past or the future.

And finally, he led her half way up a slope thickly covered with fir and spruce trees, and behind a large boulder, she saw the hidden entrance of a cave, no higher than the average dwarf.

“This is the first of several caves in these hills. We could go further east to the others, but those are more likely to house bears.”

“Let us explore this one, then. Will we need torches?” she asked, as he crawled into the dark hole. “I brought no lamp with me.” Not that the Lord of the Mole had ever feared the dark. There was something comforting about darkness. Something womblike. She was being practical.

“Ah—the rope ladder is still here.” He tested the upper rungs for strength. They were good. “There should be a couple of lamps stashed away at the bottom of the ladder, fear not.”

“A ladder?” she said, suddenly nervous. “How long is the descent? Are we very high?” Fear began to twist her innards.

“Not high! Have no fear.” And he began to climb down into the blackness.

She followed after. Tried not to think of the drop. Not high. He said it was not high. Although she did not fear the darkness, she found comfort in the golden glow of his hair below her. Her feet went downwards from rung to rung to rung to rung…

“How much further?” she called down after what felt to her like a very long time. Her voice echoed as in a vast cavern.

“Not much further—have a care, though—the rope down here seems to have partially rotted. It has been fifty years or so since we came here. It should still hold our weight...I hope. I shall hasten down first.” _And get my weight off the ladder,_ he thought.

She felt the ladder begin to give above her. “It is tearing,” she said, barely able to keep her voice calm.

“There, I am on the ground,” he said, sounding distant. “Fear not—should it break, I will catch you!”

“Catch me?” her voice was sharp, and she froze. “ _Catch_ me? How high am I now?”

“Only about fifteen _rangar_. I am right under you. Trust me!”

“Fifteen _rangar_? _Trust_ you?! _Fifteen_ _rangar?!_ You worthless load of orc-crap! You said it was not high!!”

“Indeed, it is not! Only about forty _rangar_ in all, so you are almost there. Just a little further! You can do it!”

Paralyzed with terror, Maeglin was unable to move a muscle. Already she could feel her head spinning, feel the sensation of falling, falling and turning in space… _the hillside rushing past, the ground rising to meet her…_ she clung shivering to the ladder, eyes tightly squeezed shut. She could hear and feel the ropes above giving way.

“Worry not! I have you!” he called.

As the ladder snapped, she screamed. She was still screaming when he caught her, and still screaming as he sank down to the cavern floor, holding her in a firm embrace as she shivered.

“All is well! I have you. I have you. You are safe…”

Glorfindel had not forgotten that Maeglin had died falling from Amon Gwareth. He simply had no inkling how badly it could affect her, since he had likewise fallen to his death, and was affected not at all. And he had never known the Lord of the Mole to previously have had a fear of heights.

Finally she fell silent, but her heart was still pounding madly. After a while, she opened her eyes.

The only light was Glorfindel’s bright hair, their glittering elven eyes, the faint star-shimmer around both their forms, and the shaft of light from the opening above.

“There!” he smiled. “That was not so bad, was it?”

“You putrid, pus-filled troll-wart,” the Lord of the Mole said in a hollow voice. “I cannot believe I was stupid enough to trust you.”

And Glorfindel realized that their moment of ease and freedom was over. The past had reared its ugly head. Deciding it was wisest not to repeat that it _truly_ was not that high—at least not to him—he gently raised her and steadied her on her feet.

“My bow, my arrows!” she reached back to check them. Thankfully, nothing had suffered damage.

Glorfindel had in the meantime found the metal case in which the twins had placed, almost half a millennium ago, two skeins of rope, still dry and strong, and two small egg-sized lamps, each hanging from a silver loop. The lamps lit the cavern with a soft, cool luminescence, like moonlight. The two elves looked up at the opening high above them, and surveyed the sheer walls.

“How are we to get out of here later?” she said, managing to keep her voice steady.

“I shall climb up, and let down a rope for you.”

“NO! I am NOT climbing up there again!” she said, notes of both finality and desperation in her voice. “There must be another way out of here.”

“There most certainly is,” he said. “This way.”

Then each slipped the loop of a lamp onto their belts, and made their way through a forest of stalagmites to a tall archway of rock leading deeper into the caverns.

“Are there ores here?”

“Ah, the mind of a smith! No, not here. There was some mining done in the hills further east, in the days of the Last Alliance. But I think Erchaildir and Camaen did not find ores worth their trouble when they last ventured there.”

Through a dark passage that curved through the mountain they went silently, hearing running water ahead. Maeglin, determined not to be pleasant to Glorfindel, was sullen. Glorfindel, hoping not to anger her further, did not sing or speak. He knew she liked being in caves; he hoped this one would not disappoint.

After a while, Maeglin started to notice a few small, bright specks of blue, green and gold dotting the ceiling of the tunnel overhead, and stopped to examine them. Glorfindel watched her with a smile as she scrutinized them. She gasped.

_“Worms?”_

“Yes. _Grodelin.”_ Subterranean stars.

“For one moment, I hoped for a new mineral,” she said. But despite her dismissive words, he could see the interest and curiosity shining in her eyes.

As they continued through the cave system, the _grodelin_ grew in number. Then, they crawled through a low archway, and emerged in a vast cavern. And the stalactites and walls of that cavern were all aglow with thousands upon thousands of tiny lights. The two elves drank in the beauty of the sight in silence, the joy of the moment magnified by the sharing of it. He looked at the wonder on her face with pleasure, for this it was that he had wished to show her. And she almost turned to him with a smile that said everything was worth it—before remembering her antagonism and schooling her face to expressionlessness.

“Interesting,” was all she said.

He glowed, exulting in the success of his surprise. He knew her too well to be deceived.

They lingered there for a while. The sound of running water was much louder here, and finally they followed it, went past some huge stalagmites, and saw a river flowing. And there, the path ended in water.

Maeglin frowned. “The way out?”

“By the river only, I am afraid. There was a path once, but the years and the waters have eroded it away. Would you wish to turn back? We could take the other way…”

Heights, or water. Wonderful.

Glorfindel was pulling out a small boat hidden in the shadows, and examining it.

The Lord of the Mole had always been nervous on water, and had not particularly enjoyed the few times he had joined the other courtiers boating on the river. He had gone primarily because Idril went. Maeglin eyed this boat dubiously. It was small and light, fashioned of tree bark on a wood frame and sealed with resin, and looked far more primitive than the ones they had used for leisure in Gondolin.

 “You have not used that boat for decades. How safe is it?”

Glorfindel decided it was best not to say that the boat had not been used for centuries. Elven craft are built to last. He floated it in a pool out of the main current and tested it. “No leaks. It should be fine.”

Maeglin looked to where the river disappeared around a bend. “What is the course like? Anything to be careful of?”

“Half a league long. We would have to navigate a fast-moving stretch just beyond that bend–we need just to be careful of the rocks. And at one point the river would take us over a small drop, only four _rangar_ high. How hard can it be?”

_How hard can it be?_

Whenever the Lord of the Golden Flower had said that, the other lords of Gondolin would smile, or sigh, or raise eyebrows. Salgant might snigger nervously or groan, depending on how the matter under discussion affected him.

_It was the Lord of the Mole’s first time at the annual war games with his newly-formed House._

_It was Day Seven._

_The remnant warriors of the houses of the Mole, Golden Flower and Harp were surrounded by all the other houses, who were closing in and outnumbered them more than seven to one._

_How like Glorfindel to gallantly offer to form a team with the two least popular lords. And to remain sanguine throughout the thankless struggle to rally them, as their numbers were decimated over seven days of continual disagreement and divisiveness among the team leaders. Maeglin’s contempt for Salgant was only surpassed by his jealousy of Glorfindel, and now the young prince was angry, angry at himself more than anyone. For the series of stupid errors he had made from inexperience. For opposing Glorfindel out of sheer dislike more than good judgement. And their team had paid for it._

_“There is nothing for it. We shall surrender,” whimpered Salgant, who by now was weary, and longing for a hot bath and his comfortable bed._

_The young Lord of the Mole scowled disdainfully at the Lord of the Harp and said nothing, though he concurred._

_“Nay!” exclaimed the Lord of the Golden Flower defiantly, his azure eyes flashing. “Be of good courage, my friends! We have strong warriors enough to form a wedge, charge their ranks, and drive a way through. I shall take the front. How hard can it be? By surprise and speed and daring we can prevail!!”_

The memory of that debacle made Maeglin’s mouth twitch slightly. She took whatever Glorfindel said now with a huge pinch of salt.

But between the heights and the water, she chose water.

So they launched out onto the river, he paddling at the rear, his face glowing with anticipation of the adventure, she paddling in front with her face grim and stoic.

And much could be written of the turbulent whitewater, and the great waves that almost swamped their boat, and the black rocks around which they manoeuvred with skill, and the waterfall, five _rangar_ high, over which they plunged. Suffice it to say that when they caught their breaths and surfaced from the waterfall, and found themselves in calmer waters, gliding under the cerulean summer sky, and saw the hills of Imladris gazing benevolently down upon them, both felt a surge of exhilaration that seemed boundless.

And for once—for just once in two lives—they had joined to work together as one, and succeeded. Soaking wet, eyes bright with elation, they looked at each other.

Glorfindel laughed exuberantly—his beautiful, musical, joyous laugh—as he pushed wet hair from his face. And so contagious was it, that Maeglin found herself laughing as well.

“That was tremendous!” he exulted. “Absolutely epic! We should do it again!” Impulsively, he leaned forward to hug her—then recollected himself and pulled back.

Turning back to face the front with her face impassive, and taking up her paddle, Maeglin felt almost a twinge of regret.

And seeing that the river would join up with the Bruinen soon, and take them too close to midsummer revellers, they as one mind pulled off into a shallow pool without needing to exchange a word, dragging their trusty elven boat up into some bushes. It was eight in the evening of Midsummer, and all the world about them was bright and beautiful and verdant with life. The sun was warm and golden, the breezes brought no chill. Thrushes and blackbirds warbled from the trees, and a multitude of flowers thronged the foothills—windflowers and clovers, and primroses and goldenrods.

“There is another place I would like to show you, not far from here,” Glorfindel said, his blue eyes sparkling. “We can dry off there.”

And Maeglin did not object to his assumption that she would agree to go with him. “Fine. Lead the way.”

As they climbed up the hillside, both still dripping wet, Maeglin looked at him, singing a summer song about skylarks and meadows, walking with a spring in his step, and still glowing extra bright from the exhilaration of their ride.

And Maeglin found herself imagining how, six thousand years past, he might have faced the balrog.

_“Alas, alas! A mighty valarauco blocks our way!” someone would have wailed despairingly. “We are doomed!”_

_“Fear not!” the Lord of the Golden Flower would have replied, undaunted. “All shall be well! I shall fight it, and slay it! It will only take a moment._

_“How hard can it be?”_

And the Lord of the Golden Flower, eyes on the ascent before him, and singing blithely, did not see at his side a most remarkable sight: the eyes of the Lord of the Mole resting on him almost fondly, and her lovely lips curved, not in a smirk, but in a smile that could only be described as indulgent.

 

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_Glossary_

No vaer i arad (S) -  may the day be good / have a good day

Rangar – actually a Númenorean unit of measurement for length, but I cannot find any elvish ones to use. One ranga = thirty-eight inches.

Grodelin (S) – grod = underground; elin = stars

Valarauco (Q) – balrog

 

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**_I cut this bit of silliness from the early part of the chapter (it did not seem to add anything to the story, but I always liked the idea of Glorfindel going back to his grave…), but here it is anyway, just for the heck of it:_ **

Elrond, looking at Arwen, could not but help remember how Celebrían had once cherished a fond hope that their daughter and the great warrior would make a match.

_“Never,” Elrond said, shaking his head. “You know well that Glorfindel has no thought for romance at all, meleth-nín. And Arwen is but as a daughter or a niece to him.”_

_“But there is none purer or more valiant than he. And they two are the fairest of all the Eldar to walk the earth! Think of what beautiful and charming grandchildren we will have!” Celebrían said playfully. Elrond laughed, but knew his Lady was half-serious._

_“Our daughter is worthy of a high king, meleth-nín. And,”—Elrond felt guilty as he said it—“I would not have her bind with one of lesser lineage than hers. In Eldamar, when we sail west, there would be many noble princes of the three kindred of the Eldar to vie for her hand.”_

_“El-nín!” Celebrían’s lovely face became severe.  “Nobler or finer than Glorfindel? Is Glorfindel not as a brother to us? One of our dearest friends?”_

_“Yes,” Elrond said. “And you know I love him dearly. But… as a prospective match for our jewel, does it not disturb you a little that his lineage is entirely unknown?”_

_Celebrían glared at him and sighed. “Whatever his lineage, if you would deem Glorfindel unworthy, then there is none on these shores or the other that you would deem worthy.” She caressed his face with a loving hand. “Be not Thingol as a father, meleth-nín. Remember how that tale played out.”_

With his absent wife’s words ringing in his head, the Lord of Imladris watched as his daughter’s bright grey eyes searched the crowd of Midsummer revellers for Glorfindel. He remembered how, as a young maiden coming of age, Arwen had grown besotted with Glorfindel, as many young maids were wont to be.

_Lady Galadriel, in Imladris for the coming-of-age ceremony, looked displeased at the way Arwen hung onto Glorfindel. Which astonished Elrond, since Glorfindel was one of the Lady of Lothlórien’s favourites._

_That night, Galadriel left the Hall of Fire to seek out Glorfindel as he walked in the gardens._

_“You are restless, Laurëfindel. Or do you not relish hearing songs of your renowned battle with the balrog?”_

_“A little of both, herinya. I do weary of this peacetime indolence. And I do think bards—er—embellish their recounts of the battle excessively.” He looked a little embarrassed._

_“As to the latter, you are too modest. As to the former…” She gazed deep into his eyes. “Travel Ennor. The time for war is done, for now, but not adventure. New lands await your discovery.”_

_His blue eyes grew brighter. “Indeed, I have been thinking the exact same thing!”_

_At times, he reminded her so much of Finrod. As now, when the thought of adventure and exploration lit up his face._

_“Perhaps I should venture north into the Forodwaith,” he was saying. “I know already most of the lands from the coasts of Lindon to the lands of Rhovanion.”_

_Lady Galadriel’s eyes narrowed. Too perilous and treacherous were the icy wastes of the far north. She wanted her balrog slayer safely out of the way, not dead. She remembered the ending of Lindir’s ballad._

_“Your song has a pretty ending. Legend has it that Ulmo kept your grave above the waves of Alatairë, when Beleriand was sundered, and that golden celandines bloom on it still. Is it true?”_

_“I know not in the slightest! Ulmo never told me so.” He laughed. “I live! That is what matters.”_

_And Galadriel smiled her charismatic, compelling smile at Elrond as he approached them, speaking now in Sindarin. “Law-son, I have a task for your warrior. He is to search the isles off the coast of Lindon, and bring back word if the songs of his grave be true.” She looked at Glorfindel. “And should they prove to be so, balrog slayer, bring back for me the seeds of the golden celandine that grow upon the mound. I have a mind to sow it on Cerin Amroth alongside the elanor.”_

_Glorfindel was stunned at this bit of whimsy from the Lady of the Golden Woods. He looked from the lady to his lord, a little helplessly. “Hîr-nín?” He had not an iota of interest in proving the songs true or otherwise. Elrond would not accede to a demand so whimsical, surely. The Forodwaith held infinitely more appeal as a destination to the warrior._

_So he was flabbergasted when Elrond said, quite breezily, “A splendid idea! There is nothing to keep you here, Glorfindel.”_

_“But—”_

_“You may depart immediately following the ceremony.”_

_“Hîr-nín—there are dozens upon dozens of islands off the coast!!”_

_“You have my blessing to take as much time as is needed to accomplish this task.”_

_“It will give a whole new meaning to ‘finding yourself’,” Galadriel said with a smile._

_Glorfindel returned after two coranári with a small pouch of golden celandine seeds and bulbs, stopping over in Imladris before heading to Lothlórien._

_“So…it is true!” said Lindir excitedly._

_“It was not that hard to find, in the end. I met some fisherfolk on the coast who told me of a small island with the grave of a warrior, but they did not know where it was. I went from island to island, and finally met some Falathrim who brought me to Tol Mallos.” He paused. The isle had been no more than a large, tall rock with steep slopes rising green and rocky from the sea, a village of twenty-three Telerin on its shores, who fished and herded sheep there. “And yes, it was there.”_

_“How did it feel, seeing your own grave?”_

_Glorfindel looked a little pensive. “Of course it felt strange. And the whole hillside was carpeted with celandine, not just the mound. They actually tend the grave, the Telerin on the island. And they treated me like…like I was a maia. It was quite discomfiting.”_

_“Did you attempt to exhume your own bones?” asked Erestor._

_“Erestor! The very thought!” Arwen glared at the councillor._

_“Oh no,” smiled Glorfindel. “I have all the bones I need.”_


	19. Songs by Starlight

Two elves sat on a ledge halfway up the eastern mountains overlooking Imladris valley—Maeglin on a patch of tufted grass starred with tiny white flowers, and Glorfindel on a tall rock jutting out from the cliff wall to her left.

Laid out to dry on some rocks to their right were their boots and their wet clothes weighted down with rocks so that the winds might not blow them away.

She was wrapped in his light grey cloak, which had remained fairly dry in his oiled-leather travel pack, while he wore a spare white tunic he had found rolled up at the bottom of the bag. Unbelted, it fell almost to his knees, and as he leaned against the cliff wall behind him, he looked rather as though he was wearing a sleeping shirt. He had combed out his wet braids with his fingers, and with his golden hair tumbling loose over his shoulders, Maeglin thought he looked even more ridiculously boyish. And ready for bed.

From this high perch was to be had one of the most breathtaking views of the valley, and their elven eyes were undazzled by the evening sun shining full into their faces as it sank in the west. Two waterfalls cascaded down the forest-clad mountainside to their right; before and below them was the valley, the great house crouching tiny by the slender ribbon of the Bruinen river as it meandered southwest; behind them rose the towering white peaks of the Hithaeglir.

It was not scenery that was primarily on both their minds, though. Both had discovered that there was nothing like undressing with their backs to each other to get them thinking about the other in a state of undress. So as they now sat gazing out across the beauties of the valley, they were thinking of the beauty of the one they were not looking at. Maeglin sat as still as a statue. Glorfindel appeared relaxed, but the fingers of his left hand were twisting the damp ends of a golden lock of hair.

“ _Alae!”_ Glorfindel said, suddenly, and both of them lifted their eyes gratefully to the distraction in the north-eastern skies, above the waterfalls. Two of Gwaihir’s eagles, circling above.

The great eagles did not watch over Imladris as they once had Gondolin, but occasionally they traversed the skies above it. And Glorfindel recognized the pair. Belroval and Gwailint: the two eagles who had mated that spring during his visit to the eyries. And as the two elves watched the soaring grace of the mighty pair, Glorfindel remembered their courtship dance above the eyries.

_A good omen…_

But even as the thought came to him, he could have laughed at how ludicrous it was.

 _But not as ludicrous as it might have seemed just a day ago,_ whispered a voice within.

True. Against all expectations, Maeglin had opted to spend the Gates of Summer with him. At best, she had been amiable. At worst, sullen and angry. But…she had come back. She had stayed. She could have left at any time, but chosen not to, and for Maeglin Lómion that was a great deal. As the eagles departed, soaring eastwards, Glorfindel remembered his prayer in the morning and felt gratefully that it had been answered.

It was ten in the evening, and the longest day of summer was drawing to a close. The heavens high above were deepening to shades of twilight blue, but the sky above the western heights glowed still with shades of rose and gold. High clouds streaked the sky, still rosy in the setting rays of Anor, and towered over the valley like vast Maiar guardians.

As the last gold vanished, and the stars lit one by one, Midsummer evensongs rose and fell on the air, wafted to them on the breeze.

Soon the songs of Gondolin would begin, thought Glorfindel, and continue through the night. Turgon’s journey into the Echoriad… the recreation of glorious Tirion…the loss of Aredhel… the birth of Maeglin…

The lilting melodies could reach them here, on their mountain ledge—but not the words. That was as he intended; he, of course, would recognize each song from the melody, but she at least would be able to enjoy the beauty of the music without the reminders of their city’s ruin.

As the darkness deepened, he glanced at her. Curled up in his cloak, her black silken hair lifted by the wind sweeping up the hillside, her knees hugged to her chest, the strong warrior-smith looked to him as vulnerable as a child. Her obsidian eyes, opaque and inscrutable, were gazing up at the constellations of summer in the darkening sky. Blazing with white fire, high above them, flew _Sorontar_ , the King of Eagles and _Alqua_ the Swan. Rising over the eastern range behind them was _Angulócë_ the Serpent pursued by _Quingamo_ the Archer…

The first time the two of them had ever gazed at the stars together had been six and a half millennia ago on the city walls of Gondolin.

It had been the night after Aredhel’s funeral, and Glorfindel and his house had been in charge of the night watch. Strolling along the northern city wall, he had seen the tall young prince all in black, standing silent and still as a statue, and staring out into the night.

Maeglin had looked up into the vastness of the open sky above him, feeling lost and empty. He had felt it to some degree, as he and his mother rode across an endless expanse of flat terrain towards the Echoriad. Suddenly, the dense forest of Nan Elmoth that had so suffocated him had seemed comforting and secure, less a prison than a womb. It had been different when he had travelled before with his father. They had journeyed by night and along forested trails to visit the deep caves of the ancient dwarven kingdoms. But on the journey to the hidden city, like a chick hatched from its shell, he had felt the shock of the sunlight—too glaring, too bright—and the openness of the plains on either side—too empty, too vast. Yet the desire to escape from his father and his accursed shadows had overcome all his un-ease. Excitement and novelty and the rush of adrenalin had overruled all fear.

Now his mother was gone. And his father. Locked deep within him, the heavy ache of unsheddable tears. He stood on this wall with his back to a strange city with foreign ways, its Sindarin dialect almost as foreign to his ear as the Quenya he could barely converse in. He felt exposed and desolate and afraid before the infinite heavens that yawned above him full of alien stars, and the great valley that stretched dark and void before and below him. He felt himself adrift. Felt he could fall forever into that expanse of darkness, and never land or find firm footing again.

He turned cold eyes upon the lord who approached him. The Lord of the Golden Flower glowed softly in the darkness, as though his hair and his very being were gathering all the coldness of the white stars, and spinning it into the warmth of the morning sun. This vision of golden beauty only reminded the prince of Idril, and brought afresh to his savaged, wounded heart the excruciating agony of a love that had struck him through like a spear, like a bolt of lightning. A love he had known to be forbidden from that first moment of utter longing and abject adoration, for which the only healing might be oblivion.

The orphaned prince unnerved Glorfindel. He gazed into the blank, unsmiling face before him, into black opaque eyes that glittered with reflected starlight but gave no window into their owner’s soul, and shivered a little. He remembered the pale, tearless face at the funeral earlier that day. And the same bleak, emotionless face at the execution yesterday.

They would all have preferred to see again the furious tears of rage they had witnessed in the throne room, the pale face snarling with hatred at the murderous father, as the boy cradled his mother in his arms and shouted barely comprehensible curses in a barbarous accent at the Dark Elf whom Glorfindel and Rog held pinned down to the ground.

But there had been no more tears after that. No more rage. Just the smoulder of golden fire in obsidian eyes as he sat at his mother’s side. When she breathed her last, the fire had fallen to ashes. And all Glorfindel had seen in those eyes was an abyss of nothingness, and felt both pity and fear.

Glorfindel went to the young prince’s side, sensing that he should not be left alone. And should be drawn away from standing near that steep drop from the city walls, for the golden lord had not forgotten the executed murderer’s dying curse.

“You have not slept for days,” Glorfindel said softly in the valley’s variant of Sindarin.

The black eyes looked out into the night. A slight shrug of the shoulders was the response.

“If you wish, a draught to aid in sleep could be prepared for you.”

A shake of the head. The obsidian eyes staring still at the sky.

Undeterred, the Lord of the Golden Flower asked, “You like stargazing?”

There was no reply for so long that Glorfindel wracked his brains for another suitably neutral and safe topic in the light of the tragic events of the past few days. He had decided on climate and geography when the muttered reply had come, as though spoken unwillingly, in that strange accent:

“They mean nothing to me.” Stars could barely be seen in Nan Elmoth. And no one had spoken to him about those cold, distant lights, not even either of his parents on his separate journeys with them.

“There are stories in the stars. Heroes, and battles, and creatures each with their own tale. They form patterns, and almost every star has its own name. Look—” And he pointed them out one by one and named them. _Valacirca_ the Sickle, _Menelmacar_ the Swordsman, _Wilwarin_ the Butterfly, _Anarríma_ setting in the west. . . Of each, he recounted tales and related histories in his musical voice.

And if the boy did not understand all the words that were spoken, still the magic of the golden lord’s vivid voice had power to form ideas and images in his mind. And Glorfindel, looking into the pale face, saw the eyes become sharp and alert, the face listening and alive. The boy is a sponge, thought Glorfindel. He is hungry for learning.

And somehow, as the hours passed, the two lords had ended up lying on their backs on the soft lawn starred with small white flowers set some feet away from the wall’s edge. The black-haired prince stared rapt at the heavens above as the golden-haired lord at his side pointed and gestured animatedly and breathed life into the cold stars for him.

The sentries marching past made two rounds of the walls, the stars wheeled westwards, and at last, the stars had faded in the light of dawn.

For those few hours, the prince had not felt quite so keenly the darkness and desolation of his heart. And some spell woven by the voice of the golden lord had salved his soul so that the daybreak seemed just a bit more bearable.

One would have thought that surely after that night a friendship would have been born. But alas, that was the first and last encounter of Maeglin Lómion with Glorfindel of the Golden Flower that was not poisoned by the venom of jealousy.

For later that very morning, Idril Celebrindal had run with light foot to the Lord of the Golden Flower as he stood by the fountain in the King’s Square, and kissed his cheek and stroked his face with a loving hand. And as the golden pair stood with heads close together and conferred long and intently about the late Aredhel and her tragic son, the prince had watched from afar. A dark anger had begun to spark, to later be fanned into the flames of hatred. His enmity toward the golden lord once kindled, the embers would smoulder, unabated, for the next six thousand years.

Yet from that time, the night skies of midsummer over Gondolin would never be alien to the prince again, and the stars smiled down as friends.

Now, on the heights overlooking Imladris valley, each remembered that night as they gazed at the stars together again.

Glorfindel was thinking of that moment of connection they had shared so long ago, and pondering how much of his love for Maeglin was tied to the _fëa_ , and how much to the _hröa_ that housed it.

Maeglin’s thoughts, as an _elleth_ now, were far less metaphysical. As she relived in memory herself lying on the soft grass next to the golden-haired lord, her wandering mind imagined pulling him to her and doing all manner of unspeakable things to him. Here in the present, he sat just out of her reach on that rock. Without turning her head, she knew how he would look as his flowing hair shone warm and golden in the night, and how the stars would glitter in his azure eyes. And how his embrace would feel. And how he looked without that tunic…

It was growing unbearable. _I have to get away from here_.

She rose suddenly, and went to where the clothes lay drying. He watched as she fingered her leggings. Still wet, and unlikely to dry much faster as the night air grew chillier. Cold, wet clothes never seem that bad while you are still in them, she thought; the idea of putting them on again now she was warm and dry, however, was utterly repellent. A fire would help, but neither of them had suggested starting one, for neither wished to attract any attention.

She looked around the ledge everywhere except at him, seemingly agitated, and muttering something under her breath even his elven ears could not catch. He looked at her, baffled.

“Uhh…are you looking for something?”

“No. Yes. Have you anything to eat?” she said abruptly. There was nothing but mountain grasses on the ledge; not very palatable unless you are a goat.

He was eyeing her with concern as he descended from his perch. “There may be some lembas…” he crouched by his pack and began to rummage in it, emptying out its contents as he went. Nothing. “That piece you had in the morning was the last of it, I am afraid. We passed some berries down the slope, and a stand of pines with cones. Wait here.”

The thought of the Commander of Imladris wandering its hills at night to forage for pine nuts and berries for her in nothing but a white tunic was rather precious, but suddenly she did not want him to leave.

“No, please do not. My hunger is not so great.” She eyed a small oval flask that gleamed silver on the grasses among the gear he had emptied from his pack. “What is that?”

“That?” He picked it up. “A parting gift from Bard. A form of _uruinén_ that they make from fermented corn mash.”

“Allow me to try it.” It came across as a princely command, rather than a request, as she reached out her hand from beneath the grey cloak.

Thinking she had not understood, he said, “It is _uruinén. Urnen._ Not to your taste, I should think.” The prince had disdained to touch the stuff in Gondolin, all those late winter nights of carousing. And then he made an error. He added, “It is rather potent.”

The black eyes sparked gold fire. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“There is water, if you thirst.” He held out the waterskin to her. He would not have minded offering her wine, but it had all gone to the squirrel that morning.

“I was drinking _urnen_ at my father’s knee,” she said. “I can take it.”

Sweet and fiery and smoother than silk, the golden liquid burned its way down her throat. The warmth spread through her, relieved some of the ache in her chest, melted away her tension. She felt less on edge, less tightly wound up. “Very pleasant,” she pronounced, and to his alarm, took another swig.

After the third swig, he said, “That is enough.” She held it away as he reached for it.

She turned to him, full of calm resolve, and her lips parted to speak: _It has been a most agreeable day, but I will take my leave of you now. No vaer i dhû…_ And she would get dressed, sodding wet as her clothes might be, and get herself far away from him.

But what came forth from her lips as her obsidian eyes met his azure ones was, “You promised you would tell me by starlight who the Singer is.”

And she placed the flask in his hand.

He had been bracing himself for a tussle over the firewater. Now, he relaxed visibly. “So I did,” he said, keeping the flask away in his pack.

She sank down on a mound of grass near him; her obsidian gaze as it travelled across the darkened valley was almost mellow. Tiny golden lights winked at them like stars where the great house lay, and hauntingly sad cadences of the songs wafted to them on the breeze. Glorfindel was glad she could not hear a word. It was her mother dying of poison, and her father plunging to his death.

Sitting an arm’s length from her, he wondered how to begin. “Well…it need not be a long tale if you know a little history. The Singer’s story is essentially captured in three words: silmarils, oathtaking, and kinslaying.”

And Maeglin understood. “Maglor Fëanorion,” she said softly.

“Yes. The greatest singer who has ever lived,” said Glorfindel. “Many name him the second greatest…but having heard the celebrated Daeron once, in the lands far to the east, I still esteem the second son of Fëanor most highly.

“For six millennia Maglor has wandered across all of Ennor, singing his lament. He lingers most in Lindon and the Ered Luin, and very oft along the shores of the great sea. But every now and again will he come to our valley. For there is something draws him here… Or I should say, someone.”

“And who is that one?”

Glorfindel gazed to the north-west, thinking of lands now far beneath the waves. “I did say the tale was sorrowful. The answer is be found long ago, at the Havens at the Mouths of Sirion, at the Third Kinslaying.

“The sons of Fëanor descended on the Havens in the dead of night, and in the middle of the harshest winter in seventy _coranári_.” He fell silent. Even thinking of it sickened him so deeply he could barely bring himself to repeat the story as told to him by Elwing first in Aman, then Elrond in Ennor. “They swept through the Mouths of Sirion and slaughtered all in their path.” Many who had escaped destruction in Doriath—and Gondolin—fell that day, he thought. “Maedhros was as one possessed, and would spare none. Those who could, put out to sea and escaped to Círdan’s realm on the Isle of Balar.  

“The Lady of the Mouths of Sirion was Elwing, and her Lord was away at sea,” he continued, refraining from mentioning Eärendil by name. “Knowing there was no reasoning with the sons of Fëanor, she went forth bearing the prize they sought, their father’s silmaril, and ran to the high cliffs, hoping for nothing but to lure the attackers away from her people, and sacrifice herself.

“At that time her twin sons were only four _coranári_ old. She placed Elrond and Elros in the hands of a trusted elflord, and bade him escape by a secret passage with some of their household. Alas, they were never to reach it. The Fëanorians breached the palace and cut them off on every side. Hotly pursued, the lord locked the children in an empty bedchamber, and blocked the way.

“The twins heard terrible screams coming from the streets through the window, then the sound of sword blades clashing outside their door. They crawled under the bed, huddled together, and covered their ears with their hands.

“The sound of fighting beyond the door fell silent. They heard the sound of the key in the lock, and when the door swung open, they saw that the boots and cloak of the one who entered were not that of their protector. Their hearts pounded so loudly, they were terrified the enemy would hear it. They watched as the booted feet moved across the floor of the chamber with unhurried, measured steps, the hem of a long, dark-red cloak swirling. From the tip of his drawn sword, dark blood dripped upon the floor. And through the open doorway, they could see Egalmoth lying unmoving upon the flagstones—”

The name slipped out unthinkingly. Glorfindel saw her start.

“—and both the children began to sob, certain they were going to die.

“The booted feet halted. Then, slowly, the warrior lay down on his elbows and knees and looked under the bed. And Elrond found himself staring at blood-spattered armour and long dark hair, and large, glittering grey-silver eyes. They were eyes bright with the light of the Trees like Egalmoth’s had been…but all he saw when he gazed into the kinslayer’s eyes was _sorrow_. They were weary, and burdened, and incredibly sad.

“The son of Fëanor stared a long while at the half-elven toddlers in silence, as cries of death still rose from the streets.

"Then he laid aside his bloody sword. And spoke:

_“‘Do not fear, little ones. I shall do you no harm.’_

“And such beauty was there in his voice, and so softly and gently did he speak, that it diminished some of their horror.

“He went to the window and closed the shutters to muffle the sounds of battle and shut out the bitter winter chill. He crossed to the door and he locked it.

“Then he lay on the floor and began to sing to them. And as he sang, their fear faded. He removed the gauntlets from his hands, and they did not resist him when he reached out and gently took them from under the bed.

“And he sat on the bed, and placed them on his lap. He cradled them against his blood-stained armour, in the protective circle of his steel-clad arms, and rocked them and sang softly to them till the sounds of battle and death fell silent outside the room. He sang on, not heeding when the door was pounded upon, and they heard a voice shouting in Quenya words they did not fully understand. He sang till the door was broken down by a tall beautiful warrior with flame-coloured hair and fearsome eyes, who wielded a bloody sword with his one hand.

“And quietly and stubbornly, in spite of the angry protests of his elder brother, Maglor would not relinquish the infants.

“He brought them home, and raised them as his own. He was more of a father to them than their own absent father had ever been. But finally, he sent the boys away, to Ereinion Gil-galad, so that they would be safe. So that they would not be tainted by the oath he and his brother had to fulfil.

“For over forty years were they with Maglor and Maedhros, and as _peredhel_ they grew to full stature long ere the War of Wrath ended, Thangorodrim thrown down, and the silmarils taken from Morgoth’s crown.

“Then Elrond and Elros pleaded with Maglor not to send them away. And full of fear and dread for him were they, knowing well to what wickedness and folly the Oath could drive him and his brother. But he prevailed, and bound them to secrecy ere he despatched them to Balar. And seeing the fey light in his eyes, they vowed not to tell where they had been, nor disclose all they knew of him.

“The twins grieved exceedingly when they heard how the sons of Fëanor had taken the silmarils, and how the purity of the jewels had seared their corrupted flesh. And most bitterly they wept as witnesses told of how the eldest son had plunged into a fiery chasm, and how the second son had hurled his bright jewel into the sea. From a league away could the silmaril be seen—shining brilliantly in the twilit skies as it arced through the air, then illuminating the dark waters with its radiance before it sank away into the depths of Ulmo.

“And for a while Elrond and Elros roamed the coastline seeking Maglor. But never have they seen him since. And only from afar did they hear the voice they love so well, lamenting in grief and regret.

“For thousands of years he has wandered these mortal shores, ever singing, cursed still with the guilt and sorrow of his bloodsoaked soul. For he has cursed himself to ever wander alone, and never to find rest.”

As his voice fell silent, the only sounds were the wind in the trees of fir and pine, and the roar of rushing waters cascading down. She looked out into the night, and the stars shone down upon her with their cold, cold eyes.

“So he comes here for love of Elrond.”

“Yes. Yet not once in six thousand years has Maglor spoken to him. Not once has he come to the house, or allowed any near him. He haunts the hills, and watches from afar. And sings.”

She stared into space. “So, if you were to find him,” she asked, “What would you say to him?”

“I would tell him that six thousand years is long enough a sentence,” replied Glorfindel. “He has punished himself enough. I would tell him: _be a wanderer no more. Make Imladris your home. I will let none disturb you here in this valley. Here you may lay your burden down, and here you may find rest._ ”

As Glorfindel spoke, Maeglin felt something well up within her, heavy as lead. It sat upon her chest, and caught hold of her throat.

“What of the kinslayings?” she said huskily. “There are those here, in Imladris who were at the Havens, who suffered at his hand and barely escaped with their lives. Erestor…and Lindir.”

He turned his head, and saw the obsidian eyes gazing almost pleadingly at him. “I cannot speak for them,” he replied. “But with all my heart I believe that regardless what a person has done, should there be remorse, should forgiveness be sought, it should be given. None could doubt, who hear his song, how deep is his remorse, how deep his regret.”

The tightness in her chest, her throat was so great, she could barely breathe, barely speak. “Do you truly believe that? You would forgive? No matter what one has done?” she managed to say, barely audible.

His violet-blue eyes gazed deep into hers, and held them. They heard a faint swell of song rising from the valley. And in that moment, two Midsummers six thousand years apart became one. They were back on the walls of Gondolin, and there was dragon fire on the northern heights as the midsummer stars gazed down upon them. And to the dark abyss of her eyes, Glorfindel said, as the black hordes descended into Tumladen, “Yes. No matter what.”

And he saw, suddenly naked and exposed in those dark eyes, such brokenness and torment, such infinite guilt and self-loathing, that he could do nothing but lean forward and kiss her on the mouth.

And so natural did it seem, so very right did it feel, that every reason against it melted away, and every wall built against it crumbled. This was, out of many thousands of kisses in his life, the first he had ever truly desired. This was, for her, the first time she had ever actually been kissed. Soon she was leaning into his kiss desperately, needily, and clutching at him as though she was drowning and he her only lifeline. As they kissed hungrily, her arms went around him and the grey cloak slipped to the ground. He found his hands sliding down the smooth softness of her bare skin, found himself intoxicated with her scent, her taste, found himself pulled against her rather forcefully, and falling entangled with her onto the cloak and the mountain grass. Then the floodgates opened, and no thought possible to either from that point, only a driving need that swept them along like the whitewaters of a river. As the songs of the fall of the white city rose to the skies, neither of the two Gondolindrim in Imladris heard them, lost as they were in the tumult of their own blood.

Below in the valley, the tragedy unfolded as Lindir and his singers and actors performed in the gardens of the house before a rapt audience. The battle for Gondolin was waged—the Square of the King was lost, the Tower of the King collapsed, and Turgon was slain.

On the heights, the King’s two lords lay cloaked in a warm, silken tangle of golden and black and the most euphoric of afterglows—a happy haze in which no memory existed but the bliss they had just shared, and the whole world was condensed into the other. They lay so entwined they hardly knew where they ended and the other began. As they rolled over onto their sides, still wrapped in each other’s arms, both thought: _This has to be a dream._ _Irmo, pray do not wake me…_

Already Glorfindel felt how the boundaries of their _fëar_ were blurring—his brightness and her darkness intermingling, the shadow within her crouching like a wounded animal amid swirling eddies of rapture and fulfilment.

And, unvoiced, the words sang naturally, unthinkingly, from his _fëa_ to hers:

_Gi melin…I love you._

At that, he felt her stiffen in his arms, and he saw dread in her half-closed eyes. And abruptly they were two again. Separate.

The hurt at her _fëa’s_ withdrawal from him was like a knife thrust, even though the warm length of her body pressed against his still. She gazed at him warily, angrily, shaken by that breach of her mind. He felt a dark wall raised against him in her _fëa_ , fencing the secrets she was guarding.

“I have to go—” And she pulled out of his arms, pushed herself upright, and got to her feet, turning towards where their clothes lay drying.

“No! Please don’t!” He caught her by the arm and spun her round to face him.

There was a wild, almost feral look in her dark eyes as she gazed at him like a wounded animal through the black hair falling across her face. _Fear. Desire. Need._ She did not break away from his grip.

He lifted a hand and gently brushed back her hair from her face. “It won’t happen again.”

“My mind is mine. Stay out,” she growled.

Did she not understand what they had just done? What had happened between them? He gazed at her in hurt and despair. “I will. I am sorry.”

And taking her face gently in his strong hands, he kissed her. A kiss that disarmed her, that frightened her. There was nothing in it of the aggression of their earlier passion that she could dismiss as sheer lust, little different from two animals joining in the night. The kisses he lavished on her now were slow, tender, attentive, and they bared within her a need so intense, a void so deep, that she almost wept. An impulse of terror flared in her, made her want to shove him away with a curse and a snarl.

“ _Daro!_ ” she cried out, jerking back and striking him across the face.

He at once released her and stepped back, his cheek stinging.

 _That’s it. I’ve ruined it. What should I do now?_ he thought wretchedly, as she paced about the ledge, distraught, like a wild thing seeking escape from a cage.

The next moment, to his great confusion but utter delight, she was pushing him back against the cliff face at the back of the ledge, kissing him with a desperate hunger and jostling against him fiercely…

As the Imladrim in the valley below sang of the fall of a traitor and of a hero plummeting from a pinnacle, the hero and the traitor shut out all thought of the fall of fair white towers, blocked out flame and ruin, blocked out the pain of past love and loss and betrayal and death. By the time the last notes of the songs of Gondolin lingered in the night air, the last two  Gondolindrim lay sated and sleepy on fragrant grasses starred with white mountain flowers, the grey cloak covering them both. Her head nestled in the crook of his neck, and her eyes were heavy with languor as she sighed. Like the fading of the sunset, the rapture of their climax throbbed for her with an aching sadness as it subsided, and an ancient shadow seemed to loom vast over them…

 _“Losto vae, meleth-nín,”_ Glorfindel murmured into her black hair, and the sadness was banished. He was careful not to speak to her mind as he had erred in doing earlier, but even so, he cocooned her in warmth and security, his love lapping at the borders of her being like gentle waves on a lake shore. In the sunshine of his presence, the shadows could not stay…

He watched over her till her breathing and heartbeat became slow and deep in sleep, and lay awhile in thought, lost in amazement as what had happened slowly sank in.

_They were wed._

He could feel her a part of him, interlaced _fëa_ and _hröa_. That what they had done was binding until the Second Music he had not the slightest doubt. He knew it to the depths of his being.

But with a stab of desolation, he knew that she did not see it so. One light touch of _osanwë_ , and he had found himself facing a phalanx of spears. What all this meant to her, he had little idea, but it certainly was not marriage. Given her parents, he was unsure what marriage meant to her anyway.

It certainly was not how he had dreamed their binding would be—whenever he had allowed himself to dream of it, that is. Vaguely, in his mind, he had envisioned a season of courtship, a year of betrothal, a wedding attended by friends and kin… like the thousands of pairings he had witnessed in his lifetimes.

This—this had happened so fast his mind was still in a whirl. To be lying here with his love in his arms, when just a day past he had been in utter despair, was so surreal he half-expected Irmo to awaken him any moment.

He looked up from her sleeping face to the eternal stars gazing down at them.

_What do we go from here?_

After the marriage, would at last come the courtship… friendship… and, Eru willing, the sharing of hearts…

Well, nothing had ever been normal about this love from the first moment, anyway.

He tried not to think what Idril and Ecthelion would have to say about all this. He gazed at her again, as she lay with her black eyes untroubled and serene in sleep. His beloved traitor. And as he gently draped an arm over her, and himself drifted into Lórien, his heart was singing.

 

*******************************************************

Glossary

Alae (S) – behold

Belroval (S) – mighty wing

Gwailint (S) – wind-swift

No vaer i dhû (S) – may the night be good / good night

Gi melin (S) – I love you

Daro (S) - stop

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've long been haunted by the image of Maglor as he hurled the silmaril into the sea, and I finally painted it last year... here it is on DeviantArt: http://annamare.deviantart.com/art/Cast-into-the-Sea-2-563216014


	20. The Morning After

Maeglin woke to the roar of rushing waters tumbling down rocks and wind sighing up the hillside, and the sight of the stars above growing faint as the sky brightened over the eastern mountain heights. Her cheek was pressed into a soft mane of shining golden hair and the warmth of a bare, strong shoulder.

The shock almost made her sit bolt upright.

Stunned, her mind a perfect blank, she watched the rise and fall of his chest under the grey cloak covering them.

Then she remembered. Remembered graphically everything, everything that had happened a few hours ago, and cursed long and violently in her mind.

Barely breathing, with infinite slowness, she lifted herself off his shoulder, and ever so carefully untangled the locks of her black hair that were mingled with his gold tresses, and—with some difficulty—extricated the ends of her hair which he was lying on.

He stirred a little, but dreamed on. She began to appreciate how the twins had been able to tie the hair of Ennor’s greatest warrior to his bedpost.

Now sitting up, she winced as she felt her soreness and tenderness. She looked around the ledge, took stock of the bruises on herself. And shades of Mandos, were those _bite marks_ she saw on his shoulder? She groaned inwardly.

_What next?_

One look at him as he lay peacefully dreaming, more beautiful even than last night, brought not just a surge of renewed desire but a bewildering jumble of tenderness and warmth, and stomach-churning guilt and fear. Everything within her screamed that she should flee. She dreaded looking into those sky-blue eyes and lying. She wanted to sleep with him nightly, yet abhorred the thought of dealing daily with who they had once been, and in a way would always be. Prince and subject. Fellow lords. Brothers-in-arms. Hero and traitor. _Adversaries._

And the greatest terror of all. The way he was able, so easily, to slip past all the barriers of her _fëa,_ to invade all the places most secret in her mind and her heart—the places of horror and deceit and darkness she wanted known to none, that she did not even want to face herself.

He had promised not to. It was not enough. It was not that she distrusted him, much though she might always have hated him. Oh, he would keep his word, noble and true as he always was. She had always known that.

No—it was just simply that…he _could_. The power he had over her shook her, petrified her. Her stomach twisted to recall with what ease he had penetrated those defences, last night. Without even trying, even thinking.

How much deeper he could go.

And how much part of her longed for him to do so.

For all her desire for him, it was not their passion that held her most now, but the moments of closeness and quiet that had followed. The comfort and warmth of his arms. And that moment his mind and hers had been one…she had recoiled instinctively in utter dread and terror. Yet now as she remembered it, it glowed in memory. One brief shining moment. How enticing, how seductive that fleeting flash of communion had been, a glimpse of what she had never known, but had always yearned for deep beneath all her princely pride and aloofness…a haven; a place that felt like home. Fragments of self interlocking with another, becoming one whole. The ultimate lure that whispered to her: that one could actually be _known,_ in one’s entirety, and still be loved.

_Fool. It could never be. He knows naught, and must never know._

Quickly, she pulled on her clothes. _Flee!_ She must. It had to end here.

 

Glorfindel woke up with a start, and saw the first rays of Anor streaming over the mountaintops.

As his mind was swamped by a jumbled rush of memories from last night, the surge of elation and wonder was soon replaced by desolation. _She was gone._

And why was he not surprised? In the light of morning, everything that had happened suddenly wore the appearance of disaster. It had been wondrous. It had been mutual. It had unfolded like the most natural, intensely beautiful thing in all of Eä. And it had been totally, unreservedly rash and brainless.

_What were you thinking, last night?_

The obvious answer, of course, was that he had not been thinking at all. After nine years of perfect self-control, the moment that cloak had slipped to the ground, all thought had gone south to Gondor.

He could now think of several rather important things that it might have been wise to discuss beforehand. Such as: “Before we commit this momentous, life-changing and irrevocable act, might you _ever_ find it in your heart not to hate me?”

And he had not given one thought to all his previous scruples about Elrohir.

In two long lifetimes, Glorfindel had numerous times been confronted by irate, jealous males, both elven and mortal, over his supposed relations with some female or other. He had been challenged to duels, assaulted with angry words, and fists, and weapons, and furniture, and thrown once into a dungeon in Annúminas by the future King Tarondor before being rescued by Elrond.

The thought of possibly having a fallout with Elrohir over Maeglin made his heart sink to indescribable depths. It was not only that Elrohir was among his dearest friends. The difference was this—in all previous situations, his conscience had been perfectly clear, his innocence beyond a doubt. 

_Now…_

Wretched with love, wracked with guilt, desperate to find Maeglin, he snatched up his clothes from where they had been laid out to dry on the ledge, and pulled them on quickly. As he did, he could hear Ecthelion’s lecture on proper conduct and self-control, dished out to him after he had been found, at the age of forty, with three young _ellith_ in his bed after _Nost-na-Lothion_.

_“But—but they just wanted to cuddle. Nothing really happened!” the youngster had protested, after Ecthelion sent the beauties packing._

_“Guard your behaviour,” Ecthelion snapped sternly, “or before long something WILL happen. And it may be an angry father jamming a dirk to your throat and demanding you wed a girl you care naught for after compromising her honour. Irresponsible, Lauro. Stupid and irresponsible. One day, you will find the One for you. And when you do, make sure that you have no regrets. Be certain to do everything right by her. Until then, let naught happen that would cause grief to the princess or the king, or you are not so old I cannot still give you a whipping.”_

Glorfindel was half glad Ecthelion was not here to witness his folly, half wishing the Lord of the Fountain was here to offer some counsel. Scanning the ledge, he was annoyed and dismayed to see neither his leggings nor his boots. Nor his hunting gear and travel pack.

Had they fallen off sometime during the throes of their passion, or been blown off the ledge by the wind?

Or had she tossed them off herself? In anger? In horror? Or simply to slow him down?

She had hidden them, he realized, as a swift search discovered each item tucked away in various crevices at the back of the ledge, his right boot wedged between two boulders in a manner that required contortionist skills for retrieval. That gave him some idea of her state of mind. As he eventually hunted down his travel pouch and strapped on his knives and bow and quiver, he reached tentatively out to her with his _fëa_. Not trespassing, just sensing. Across the distance, he faintly discerned desperation, and misery.

He swiftly followed her. At places, her light prints showed on the dewy ground. At others, pine and fir and stone whispered softly of her passing to him. He was less than an hour behind her, and she was choosing a winding route southwards, then westwards, through the hills. It would slow her down, but she was avoiding the valley where people were.

And the realization hit him before long. She was heading to the pass in the south-west. She was leaving the valley. And within he knew: she did not plan to return.

He caught up with her before long, saw her running across a clearing into the woods that ran alongside the Bruinen river…

 

As she ran, Maeglin was remembering her mother, and their journey from Nan Elmoth to Gondolin. How Aredhel had turned her head to look back, and muttered, "He will come. He will not let us go so easily." Urging on her horse, she had added, almost to herself: "He has no rights over me, none. We said no blessings. We exchanged no rings. I am not bound." Maeglin had looked into his mother's eyes and seen the opposite of her words. Seen in the lovely silver eyes that passion and desire that always lurked just beneath her loathing of his father. It was something that bound her to the _Moriquendë_ , warring with her yearning to be free.

Maeglin could understand better, now, that war of passions within her mother. She thought of herself and Glorfindel. _We are not bound. We cannot be bound._ And yet here she was, yearning for him, irrationally, stupidly.

She sensed him before she saw him. When she glanced over her shoulder and saw him behind her, she knew it would be futile to run. But she did anyway, into the woods, and was unsurprised when he overtook and cut in front of her.

She almost skidded to a halt on the dewy moss, as he appeared before her, glorious and golden in the morning sunlight slanting through the branches overarching them. They stood in silence, facing each other, reddening slightly as all of the previous night lay between them.

“Lómiel,” he began awkwardly, really at a loss what to say, “Please—you do not have to run…”

“Do not try to stop me, do not get in my way.” Her black eyes glinted coldly. She moved to skirt around him.

He reached out to touch her arm. “Lómiel—”

 _“Don’t touch me!!”_ she snarled at him, pulling away from him.

Every possible profession of undying love died on his lips. “You are leaving Imladris,” he said. “But why?”

“Do not _ever_ touch me again,” she said, ignoring the question. She stepped away, and continued walking.

They went deeper into the woods. He trailed after her, feeling utterly miserable and helpless. “You do not have to leave. We…we could put it behind us, and move on.” _What utter rubbish. There is no way I could ‘move on’ from this._

“I _am_ moving on,” Maeglin said shortly, not turning.

He drew up alongside her, to her left, but kept two _rangar_ between them, talking to her through the trees and shrubs that passed between them. “But what about the _smithy_ , the guard—could you just walk away from all that?”

 _You owe him no explanation. Just leave._ “I never belonged here. I knew I would leave some day,” she heard herself say.

“Of course you belong here! What about…about…your friends?” Glorfindel struggled in anguish to try to understand how Maeglin might feel. _How would the Lord of the Mole feel, waking up after being bedded by the one elf he hated most?_

 _And yet, surely, after all that happened between us last night_ …

“What about _us?_ Please, talk to me. Tell me what is wrong. I thought you were happy, last night.” _You were. Do not deny it. I have never seen you so happy before._ “I thought we made each other very happy.”

“Last night was madness. No more than a dream. It is daylight now.” Her profile was hard as steel, her eyes like ice.

Glorfindel gathered his much-vaunted courage. “But—you do realize,”—he spoke cautiously, and there was an edge of desperation in his voice—“that after last night, you and I—we are _bonded_ now?”

“ _Bonded?”_ She echoed mockingly, her eyes narrowing. “Have you said that to any of the other _ellith_ you have bedded?” Her voice was chilly, accusing.

“What??” he said in outrage and shock as he emerged from behind an oak tree. “‘ _Other_ _ellith’_?—what ‘ _other ellith’?_ How could you _think_ —” And Glorfindel suddenly recalled the occasional murmurs of scandal in the Gondolin marketplace, which he had always ignored as beneath his contempt. And now he realized how a certain lord might have relished the gossip—and believed it. He moved closer to her. “I have no idea what you may have heard, but it was _not true._ There has only been you! There _will only always be you.”_

The blazing sincerity in his eyes, the intensity of his voice shook her, but she kept on walking, and put a few birches between them.

“No matter. It was a stupid mistake.”

He might have thought so himself, but he was unprepared to hear it from her lips. Each time he thought it no longer possible, she found a way to break his heart further.

“Yes, it was. A terrible mistake. It should _not_ have happened that way. It was rash, and unthinking, and there are no excuses for how I behaved. I am sorry.” He knew it would be a fatal error to remind her that _she_ had been the one who had taken their kiss further. It was the memory of the tenderness and vulnerability she had shown towards the end, as she had snuggled against him in the moments before sleep, that emboldened him now to throw all caution to the winds, forget about Elrohir, and desperately appeal to her. “I love you. I never meant this to happen— _not like this_. There are so many things I wanted to say to you first. I wanted to give you the courtship you deserve, and the betrothal, and the blessings, and the gold rings… But it is done, and it cannot be undone. And it binds us. Can you not feel it as I do? We are one now, and I am yours. For always. And though I understand it is not your wish now, I hope that we may yet have blessings and rings in the fullness of time.”

She looked at him, shaken and stunned, and something caught at her throat, and wrenched her heart. Something that wanted what he offered. _So badly._ Her lips tightened. “Exactly. We have had no blessings. No rings. That means that you are free of me, and I of you. So go away and leave me be! You have nothing to hold me with. There is nothing between us. It was _nothing_.”

“It was _not_ nothing! Binding does not _need_ rings or blessings. I would wish for them only that the world might be our witness and share my joy, but blessings or no, rings or no, _it is done._ I am joined with you _fae_ and _rhaw_ for all time and the Valar themselves cannot undo that. If you leave now you tear away half of me with you. I will force nothing upon you. I will not even come nigh you unless you give me leave. Take all the time remaining to Arda if you wish, and if your answer still be nay, I will accept it. But do not go. Please.”

It took all her strength to look into his blazing sea-blue eyes, and twist the knife. “That is a wagonload of orc-crap. I am joined to _no one,_ nor will ever be. I belong to myself alone,” she said, her voice cold and cutting. “This sorry affair should never have happened. And it was nothing to me. _You_ are _nothing_ to me. Begone! _Ego!”_

She turned away again, and ran through the trees up a slope towards the path leading out of the valley.

The hurt was so great, he could not speak for a while. He would rather have faced the fiery whip of the balrog again a hundred times again than endure this. And out of the pain and desperation of his heart he could only think of one thing to say to her departing back.

“Lómion, wait! Do not leave!” he called after her in anguish. In Quenya.

She came to a sudden halt.

“ _Melin tyë, cundunya._ I love you, my prince.”

She froze—stood on the slope as though turned to stone for a heartbeat. Then she turned, and looked at him in shock.

“What did you say?” she whispered, also in Quenya.

“I know who you are. You are Maeglin Lómion. And I love you.” And he walked up the slope towards her.

She backed away and drew her knife.

“Stay away from me!” she snarled, panic and bewilderment in her eyes. “How did you know?” It did not even occur to her to deny it.

“The name, the smithy,” he said gently. “It was rather obvious, _cundunya_.”

Then it dawned upon her, and she suddenly stopped backing away. Her black eyes flashed and narrowed as she held her ground.

“So you knew!” she said slowly, her voice a growl. “When you gave me the sword, you knew!”

He saw the fire in her eyes, and knew at once that she was now ready to use the knife in dead earnest.

“ _Melmenya_ —” he said.

“Shut up, you piece of _muk!!”_

She began to advance on him, her face grim.

She drew a second blade.

“I thought it would please you to receive back something you had made,” Glorfindel said, backing away and staying out of reach of the blades. “How was I to know? I was trapped at that time in the Great Market and the Square of the King, fighting off hordes of Orcs. Itarillë never told me about how she used the sword when you—when she—I only guessed it when I saw the look on your face. I am sorry, I never, _ever_ meant to hurt you.” 

He saw fresh horror come over the Lord of the Mole’s mortified face, and she halted abruptly.

“You cesspool of orcshit— _last night_ , you _knew!_ You _knew_ it was _me,_ and you—”

She began to flush a deep red as the acts of the previous night suddenly appeared in a very different light. Everything she had done. Everything she had let him do to her. The way he had turned her into a quivering, moaning mess of need and desire. “Oh, stinking pits of Angband—” the prince of Gondolin muttered, dazed with total humiliation now at the memory, her stomach churning.

“Yes, I knew it was you, _cundunya_. And I cannot tell you how wondrous it was,” said the golden lord of Gondolin with a luminous smile at the memory. “There are no words for how amazing—how _awesome_ —you were last night—”

At that the Lord of the Mole advanced on the Lord of the Golden Flower with blazing eyes and a hiss, and lunged at him with the knives.

As he jumped away from the slashing blades, Glorfindel wondered if it was ever possible for him to say the right thing.

“You bloody _bastard!”_ Maeglin said in a voice choked with fury.

“I admit it,” said Glorfindel dodging one blade as it whizzed close to his face and jumping back from another aimed lower down. “I can assure you, however, that I am not Turukáno’s.”

“I am going to kill you,” she snarled, “you misbegotten son of a troll!!”

“ _Cundunya_ —please, do not be angry.” Glorfindel, still completely mystified by her reaction, narrowly missed a stroke that would have disembowelled him. “I thought—I thought you wanted it as much as I did last night—and that you found pleasure in it as I did—you certainly _sounded_ like you did—”

At that, the Lord of the Mole snarled some vehement and highly colourful invectives and sent the Lord of the Golden Flower dodging behind a tree with a series of very purposeful knife strokes.

Glorfindel looked out from behind the tree at her in awe.

“By the mountain of Manwë!” he said admiringly, “you are magnificent when you’re angry!”

A knife came whizzing at him, and he dodged it as it slammed into another tree behind him. That would have gone right into his eye, he thought, as he pulled the blade out of the wood. She meant business.

“Who else have you told, you louse-infested warg-kisser?” Maeglin demanded, her face hot with shame.

“Only Elrond, and he thinks I am insane,” said Glorfindel. “And I have _never_ had a louse in my life.” He held out the hilt of her knife to her in what he hoped was a conciliatory manner.

She looked as though she would explode. “Stick it up your ass!” she snarled, scowling ferociously. “You arrogant prick!” She lunged at him again.

Retreating hastily, he tucked her knife into his belt. “Tell me when you want it back.”

 _“Don’t patronize me!_ You always patronized me.” Her remaining blade whizzed close to his ear.

He gaped at her as he dodged the knife. “Lómion, no! I never did—I never meant to.”

“With sword, or bow, or unarmed combat—you were always the _superior_ one, and I the backward pupil you could be charitable to.” The knife slashed close again. They went dancing deeper into the woods. “Did it amuse you, to behold me returned _thus_ by Námo? Did you come so oft to the smithy to glory in my _weakness?_ My _abasement?_ A frail _nís_ dependent on your chivalry?” She spat out the words in rage.

Glorfindel’s eyes widened in shock and his mouth dropped open in horror. He was speechless. The next vicious slash almost got him in the gonads.

“Yet I would not have imagined you could stoop so low as to make a mockery and pretence of love. A game well played, Golden Flower. Your act almost took me in.” _Slash._ Her eyes flashed angrily with golden fire, as last night now seemed nothing more than the ultimate humiliation at the hands of an enemy.

“No! It was _never_ that! Never! I love you, I truly do,” protested poor Glorfindel, keeping just out of reach of the blade.

“How diverting you must have found it, to connive to add the prince of Gondolin to your countless conquests. Was the revenge sweet? Did you relish the challenge? You will not get to display the trophy, you lowlife scum of Angband!” Her face was flushed with mortification and rage. “Death is too good for you!” _Slash slash._

“Lómion—Lómiel—” He was at his wits’ end with desperation. “What must I do to prove to you that I love you?”

“Give it up, filth. The game is over.”

They had come to the banks of the Bruinen. Abruptly, he came to a standstill. She gasped as she almost disembowelled him, her blade swerving just in time.

“Very well, game over,” he said. “Finish this. I will not run.”

Glowering, her eyes still flickering with fire, she took a step forward and pointed the blade at his heart. Her hand held steady, but she did not move.

“Go ahead,” he said. “I shall not hold it against you, as I do not hold the first.” His eyes were blue-grey and serious. “I mean it. If you will not have me, I would rather be with Námo till the Second Music.”

The blade wavered. She lowered the knife, her eyes narrowed. “You contemptible worm. Do you mock me still?” Then suddenly, she aimed a violent punch at his jaw, which he blocked, eliciting a curse from her.

“Sorry, instinct,” he apologized. “I’ll not dodge the next one. I promise.”

She stepped back, glaring at him distrustfully, angrily. “Condescending _muk_ ,” she growled.

“Almighty, everlasting Eru!!” burst out Glorfindel in despair. “Strike me, stab me! What would give you satisfaction? What can I do to prove my love for you? Drown myself in the Bruinen? Cut off my hand?”

“Too easy! Cut off your hair!” she shot back.

“Fine!” Azure eyes flashing, he grabbed a handful of his tresses, whipped out her knife, and hacked it off.

She gasped in horror as the golden lock fell upon the grassy riverbank, dropped her knife to the ground, and lunged forward to grab his knife hand.

 _“Stop it!_ Are you _insane?”_ She grappled with him as he tried to cut off another lock. “I’ll _kill_ you!”

“You want to kill me for cutting my hair and _I_ am insane?”

“You crazy bastard! Don’t do it!”

“You told me to!” They fell over onto the grass as they struggled together.

“I never thought you would!”

“Do you believe me now?”

“Damn you! Is this another trick of yours?”

“I love you, my prince! If you want my hair before you’ll believe it, you can have it!”

“Stop it! Stop!” She wrenched the knife out from his hand and threw it aside. And as she lay panting on his chest, his arms closed around her. “Let me go, you crazy _muk!”_ She struggled violently.

“Not until you believe that I love you!” As she attempted to manoeuver herself out of his embrace, Glorfindel said, “That won’t work. I taught you how to do that, _melmenya_.”

“ _Shut up!!_ Stop calling me that. You _hated_ me.”

“No, it was _you_ who hated me, Lómion. I tried so hard to be friends—well, for the first fifty years, at least.” As she attempted to knee him in the groin, he shifted her body so that her back lay against him, and she found herself gazing at the high blue sky.

“Do not pretend that you even _liked_ me,” she said, her arms pinned to her sides, but kicking viciously at his legs with her heels.

“Yes, my prince. I disliked you very much.” He kissed the sensitive spot on her neck just by her ear. “Always scowling.” Kiss. “No sense of humour.” Kiss.

She began to flush with something quite different from anger.

 _“Stop it!_ This is—just— _revolting_. There is no way this is ever going to work.”

“That is not going to stop me from trying,” he said, leaning the side of his head against hers.

 “I hate you, Flower,” she said, but in so toneless a voice she might have been saying the opposite.

“I know, Mole,” he said gently. “But I will always love you.”

 _“Shut up!_ You _cannot!_ ”

“Cannot what?” he said gently into her silken black hair.

“Cannot love me.”

“But I _do.”_ He hugged her more tightly, and planted a noisy, wet kiss on her cheek.

“ _Stop that!”_ She squirmed and tried to elbow him in the ribs. “Can you not see how _wrong_ this is?”

“Hmm…” he pretended to think. “No. Not at all. Not anymore.”

“The hero and the traitor,” she said bitterly.

“A lifetime ago, and far away. It does not matter.”

She stopped struggling. “Surely you must hate me for…for what I did.”

At that, he gently rolled her off him, turned her to face him, and looked deep into her black, haunted eyes. His fair face was solemn.

“No,” he said softly. “I do not.”

And he captured her mouth in a deep and tender kiss.

A huge piece of darkness that had weighed on her soul for six millennia fell away from her in that moment and vanished into the abyss in the depths of the Halls of Mandos.

And when he kissed her again, she kissed him back.

 

Mid-morning. Arms wrapped around each other, they sat leaning against the trunk of a great oak tree, and the music of the Bruinen was loud in their ears.   

“And did that please you, my prince?” he asked, as he kissed her.

“It was tremendous,” she said against his mouth, as she kissed him back. “Absolutely epic. We should do it again.”

“We certainly should. But I wondered—would you like to join the festivities today? There will be food and dances and games from Gondolin…I know you care not for dances nor games, but you might like the food. There should be a wonderful smoked duck done just as you liked it.”

She looked at him in surprise. “How did you know I like smoked duck?”

“It was the only thing you ever took second helpings of, at the King’s table. No, I’m wrong. You also occasionally took seconds of boneless roast veal. Medium rare. They will have that too.”

She was silent, her fingers drawing patterns on his chest. “Go if you wish. I will remain in the hills.”

“I will go only if you do!”

“You wish for revelry, and song, and merry companionship. And I know you desire to take part in the games. Go! Do not stay away for my sake.”

He knew her impassive face was a mask for unhappiness. “I wish only to be with you. And I do not care if we do not dance or play games—” 

She sighed. “I will _not_ go. Elrohir will claim a dance, and I weary at the thought of having to refuse him. He will be persistent, I know.”

Glorfindel looked deeply discomfited. “I must ask. Who is Elrohir to you?”

Maeglin looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. “A friend.”

“And no more?”

Her mouth curled in a familiar smirk. “A handsome and charming friend.”

Glorfindel’s eyes darkened to violet. “I see.”

“He swore he would lift me bodily, carry me onto the sward, and make me join the dances.”

The blue eyes flashed. “If he tries to lift you bodily, I will lift _him_ bodily and drop him into the pond!”

“Is the Lord of the Golden Flower jealous?”

“Have I not reason to be?”

As her obsidian eyes gazed at him, she did not speak for a moment, so strange did it feel to have their roles reversed, he now jealous as she had once been of him, and she wished to savour it for a while. But so tender did her heart feel towards him that morning that she could not find it in herself to torment him longer. “Be at ease. Elrohir is naught to me but a friend, and I to him. Perhaps I intrigue him. Perhaps he likes that I do not desire him to make love to me, as other elfmaids might. But I am no more to him than Arwen is, I believe.”

Relief and gladness washed over Glorfindel. “I shall speak to him when we return, to make certain.”

“No, do not!”

He looked at her quizzically.

“Do not expose our secret.”

It was his turn to raise an eyebrow. “Secret?”

She looked back at him and did not reply. Then looking away, she took up the lock of hair he had shorn off, and began plaiting part of it into a thin, intricate five-stranded braid.

“You do not wish it to be known?” he asked. “But why?”

“It is none of their business. It is no one’s business but yours and mine.”

“It is not because you are not sure of me?”

“It is not.” She frowned. “I hate the thought of the furore it would cause. The nuisance of the endless nosy questions and gossip, the scrutiny.”

“Secret lovers it is, then. Rather exciting.” He kissed her, and as they sat shoulder to shoulder, he watched her clever fingers plaiting the slender lock of his hair. “I thought you hated braiding.”

“My own hair, yes. I have nothing against braiding itself. I would never attempt your head, though. I could not better how you do it.” She looked at him appraisingly, and her hand went out to the ragged ends of the tress he had cut off, lying against his cheek. “I still cannot believe you did it.”

He was amazed at how doleful she sounded. “It is hair, _meldanya_. It will grow back.”

“How will you explain it? There will be cries of horror. It will be the subject of talk for weeks. You know what the household is like.”

He smiled. “I will tuck the ends into a braid, never fear. At the worst, I’ll tell everyone I had an accident.”

The braid she was working on was now a long, slender strand. He took it from her, tied it into a little noose and looped it playfully around her right forefinger.

 _“With this ring I bless, I wed thee. With my body, I worship thee…_ ” he said, only half in play.

She was silent as the ancient words of blessing hung in the air, and stared at the bright ring of gold on her finger. “So much brighter than any metal could ever be,” she murmured.

“I love you, _vesseya.”_

There followed a silence that lingered so long it became awkward. “I believe you,” she said finally. And slipped the noose off her finger.

He did not say anything, nor betray any hurt in his face. Taking the braid from her, and drawing a blade, he cut it shorter and wove the ends of the braids together skilfully till a golden ring was formed. Then he casually slipped it back onto her ring finger.

She gently touched the soft golden ring that glowed on her hand. And though she left it on this time, she said, “I cannot wear it before others.”

“It matters not. Do as pleases you.” He shrugged nonchalantly and smiled. Again, neither hurt nor anger was betrayed.

She carefully coiled the remnants of the tress of golden hair and tucked it away into a pouch.

“What will you do with that?”

“What would Fëanáro have done with Artanis’ hair had she bestowed it? I know not yet, but I shall find a use for it,” said the smith.

“What shall we do now? If you will not to the house, shall we away to the hills?” There was a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he added, “We could go for a swim beneath a waterfall as we did once before.”

She gave him a lazy, wicked, feline smile. “That sounds heavenly. But it can wait,” she said, leaning towards him. Her long, slender fingers trailed down his bare torso. “First, we need more of the tremendous and the absolutely epic.”

And he had no objection to that.

 

*****************************************************

_Glossary_

Fae & rhaw (S) – spirit & body. It seems to me that the Quenya fëa and hröa are more universally used, thus I’ve opted for that in the narration.

Ego (S) – Get lost

Melin tyë (Q) – I love you

Cundunya (Q) – my prince

Melmenya (Q) – my love

Nís (Q) - female

Meldanya (Q) – beloved

Vesseya (Q) – dear wife


	21. The Betrayal

There is no time in the depths of Angband. Only an eternity of searing agony, measured in screams and curses.

I know not how long I have been here. Days...weeks...months...

There is nothing left of me but nerves afire with pain upon pain upon pain. I have spoken nothing but curses spat forth in rage. I nurse my anger and hate. They are all that give me strength.

My one prayer: that death will come quickly.

Then suddenly, the tortures cease. I still shake and shiver uncontrollably from the pain of my wounds, my breath ragged in the silence, awaiting the next onslaught.

The lieutenant of Morgoth comes forward, and tries something new. He strokes my hair slowly and some of the pain recedes. He speaks to me in a voice as terrible as the edge of an iron sword, as seductive as silk on skin.

“I can see your heart’s desire, young prince. Other things you may hide from me, but this—ah, this dark, dark desire you cannot. How you burn. How you lust. And what if I said that you could have it? Yes. The golden princess for your bed. As you dream each night, and each day…”

Through the pain, I feel the heat. I feel the abyss of longing within me, that has burned, unsated, for so long. Images of Itarillë fill my mind. Responsive. Eager. _Mine._

“Yes. Yours. Utterly. Devotedly. For a simple word. An easy word.” The voice of silk whispers in my ear. “Where is the secret city?”

I can barely breathe for the war of desire and will within me. I think I might die. I wish I would.

There is no patience in the heart of Morgoth. “Well?” A voice deep and molten like the earth’s depths, terrible as the frozen wastes of the Helcaraxë. “Mairon, I begin to tire of this game.”

“A moment, my liege…” Sauron’s voice is a caress. “Yes, sweet prince. Your every fantasy fulfilled. Your deepest dream made real. Come. How easy it is. A beauty for your bed. A bright crown for your head. Love. Power. Glory. Just tell us where…”

Glory and power...were that all they have to dangle before me, I might withstand it. But love. . .

Itarillë. Her eyes, her voice, her skin. I am nothing but heat and burning lust. Sauron’s fiery eyes stare into mine and smile. Images assault my mind, and sensations wrack my body. I groan with need so great that the earlier torments seem nothing next to it. The ache, the need, the _void_ is so deep.

“I will tell you…” I hear my voice.

I hear the words spill forth. They hang in the air so briefly. Nothing can take them back. Nothing.

Deep within, I scream denial.

Sauron laughs. Morgoth rumbles.

“I have said it. Let me go.” Horror and despair crawl within me.

They are not done.

“Excellent. A bargain, fair prince. All that remains is to seal it with blood.”

The sound of chains. A prisoner dragged in by the arms by two orcs. He lies limp upon the filthy ground. White skin smeared with dirt. Slender limbs. Hair that once was fair. Chains on hands that were dragging against the floor are now lifted next to mine. We hang, side by side. The head of the other is fallen forward. Hair once gold matted with filth and blood.

“One thing only is needed, and you will be released. Bind yourself to us with blood,” says the smooth voice I loathe. The orcs begin their torture. The moans and cries of the prisoner begin. And go on… and on.

“Stop!” I say brokenly. “Stop. What do you want from me?”

My shackles are released. I crumple to the filthy ground, breath ragged, limbs like water.

The silken voice of the Lieutenant of Angband: “Your soul.”

A morgûl knife is slid into my hand.

“No…” I whisper.

The screams go on. Echo off the cold stone walls.

The laughter of orcs, and of Sauron.

“Choose, slave.” The deep growl of Morgoth. “End his wretched life and gain your freedom. Or descend into the pit with him.”

Weakly rising to my feet. The blade cold in my hand. Swaying, turning to face the other who hangs from the wall.

Beneath matted hair once golden, hollow grey eyes stare. Grey pools of pain upon pain. And in the broken beauty of that face, Glorfindel looks back at me. I shudder in shock.

“Well?” Lord Sauron’s silken voice in my ear. Morgoth’s lieutenant reaches out a hand to caress the prisoner’s bruised and bloody cheek. “This once was as beautiful as you.” Then rakes long nails deeply through one arm.

The prisoner screams.

“Stop!” I cry. “Stop! I beg you.”

Grey eyes lift to meet mine. In the abyss of pain in the prisoner’s eyes, I see a faint flicker. A spirit still brave, unbroken after fifty years. And a mute appeal for release.

I grip the knife hilt in shaking hands. With my remaining strength, push the blade into the brave soul’s heart. The grey eyes hold my own to the last. Dark blood spurts forth on my hands, my face.

A ghostly shadow of a smile lifts a corner of the prisoner’s mouth. I swear it.

The white _fëa_ departs.

I fall weeping to the ground before the lifeless body on the wall.

Black laughter fills the chamber. I am lifted from the floor. My feet dangle in the air.

“Well done, servant of Melkor,” says the voice of silk and iron. “A golden princess won. And a place in the kingdom of unlight.”

Sauron strokes my face. I scream in agony.

Then a song, flooding the chamber with light. A tall, white being is there, radiant with the glory of the Ainur, winds of power flowing over his form and lifting golden hair.

Sauron and Morgoth give terrible cries, and fade.

I am held in warm, strong arms, and the pain dissipates as I feel myself wrapped in waves of light and love, as his light flows into my unlight.

“You’re safe,” he says softly as I wake, shaking and sobbing. He holds me to his chest, his arms wrapped warm around me. “It’s over. It was only a dream. You’re safe.”

I push myself out of his arms and fall out of the bed.

“ _Melmenya!”_ he reaches for me, alarmed.

“Stay _out of my mind_!” I cry out, my voice terrible in my own ears. “You have _no right_ — _no right_ —get out!—stay out of my mind!” And I run into the bathchamber, slamming the door shut in his face.

The anger and pain are so deep I can barely think or breathe. I am still shaking. I sit in the dark, cold chamber, the light of the stars falling upon me through a high window. Rage, terror, shame, that the most secret part of me, the darkest, has been violated.

How much did he see? How much does he know? How dare he, _how dare he_. How dare he trespass into my secret hell…

I weep with the grief and shame and self-loathing that this dream always brings, the darkest dream that has haunted me through the years. That haunted me to madness in the long years at Gondolin that I waited. Waited with Sauron’s silken voice in my mind, his black leash upon my heart, and his choking gag upon my tongue. Waited for the hordes of Angband to arrive.

A dream that has haunted me almost weekly at Imladris…that goes beyond the horror of that black moment of treachery, and all the ruin and death that followed after.

A dream of hollow grey eyes and faded golden hair. A familiar form seen in the horrors of hell.

The taking of a Firstborn life.

The moment the blade slid in. Over and over again I see it. The blade going in. My hands pushing it home. The dark blood flowing. The blade sinking in. Over and over.

Agonizing over what was in my heart and mind as my hands pushed it home.

Whether it was pity and awe. For the brave soul that had endured the black pits of Angband since the Battle of the Sudden Flame…

Or whether terror that the brave one's fate could be mine…

Or hatred for the elflord whose hair he wore.

The same elflord who waits for me, outside this chamber door.

I do not know how long I stay in there. In the midst of my pain, my love and longing rise in me. I recall the hurt in his azure eyes as I shut the door on him. I think of the warmth and comfort of his arms. And I am filled with need for him again.

My anger has fallen to cold ashes. I am left with terror that enters my heart like ice. That tells me he _knows_. Knows now the shame of my treachery… why I broke… why I sold my soul… why I slew that tormented shadow with his hair.

Pain grips my heart so tightly I can barely breathe. I will see the love die in his eyes. See horror and condemnation in its stead. See tenderness fade and hatred burn.  

I feel him outside the door. It takes all my courage to open it.

He is there.

In his haunted eyes I see that he knows my dream.

I wait for the death stroke to my heart.

He comes to me and takes my face gently in his hands. His glittering violet eyes, looking into mine, are full of pain. Tears begin to spill down his face.

“I am so sorry,” he says huskily. “So sorry that happened to you.”

He wraps his warm, strong arms around me tightly and rocks me gently as my fractured, strangled words choke out between wracking sobs.

“I was weak— _weak_ …I tried to be strong. I wanted to die—I should have died…it should have been I who died there…I killed him—I was so weak…Sauron broke me—broke me like a twig…I killed them all—I _killed them all_ …I _killed you…_ ”

And he strokes my hair and holds me, his own tears falling on my shoulder and into my hair as he shares my pain. He kisses my mouth, and we taste each other’s tears.

“You were brave,” he says. “You were strong. Anyone would have broken in your place.”

It is not true. I know he would never have broken. I know his _fëa_. In a thousand years he would have been yet unconquered by Angband, his shining soul pure as snow and his strong heart unyielding and true as a diamond. Uncorrupted. Undefeated. Like the golden-haired warrior whom I slew.

He lifts me in his arms and carries me to the bed and loves me with a passion slow and deep and tender. As though his kisses can purge away guilt and shame. As though his caresses can sooth away the aching emptiness that betrayed a city, and his touch can wipe out the defilement of Sauron’s hand. He takes my body to new heights of pleasure as a salve for all the tortures that wracked it, the giving of his life-seed an absolution for all the deaths…and for his own.

Two seasons have passed since. Winter is upon us.

My dream of Angband has not returned.

Each night in the warm cocoon of our bed, he offers me his song and his light in my dreams. Dream by dream, he casts out the darkness. Slowly defeats it. Drives it back into the abyss.

When I wake, he offers comfort the only way he knows how. With the sweetness of his kisses and the passionate love of his warm body in mine.

Could any love could last till the unmaking of all things? I dare not believe it. But I shall treasure what I have each day. This love I do not deserve. That gazed into the abyss of my black soul and the shadows of my darkest dream, and chose to love me still.

A love that is teaching me day by day to trust...

That he will keep my secrets safe.

And that he will always walk gently in my dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hardly any changes made here to the earlier version… this was one of those little bits that just wrote itself, and even a year later, doesn’t want to be rewritten!  
> And I almost forgot to acknowledge that the idea for Angrod as a prisoner in Angband came from EbonyKitty552 (again...)


	22. The First Year

“Rules,” Maeglin said sternly in the pre-dawn hour, as they dressed on the ledge by the waterfalls. “I go to your chamber, not you to mine.”

“Unnecessary. There is no one else in that wing but us—” Putting both their bedchambers in the east wing of the house, just two doors apart, was possibly the most brilliant thing Erestor had ever done, thought Glorfindel.

“I’ll not risk it.” _The thought of his golden glow in that dark hallway..._ “And we shall conduct ourselves as before—no kissing in the hallways, no groping under the dining hall table. In fact, we should sit apart as always. And stay out of my workroom at the smithy. Clear?”

“Crystal, _cundunya._ ”

As he pulled on his boots in silence, she knew in wretchedness of heart that he was angry. Very angry. He quietly strapped on his quiver, bow, and knives with unhurried, precise movements, and his brow was unfurrowed. But she was beginning to feel his hidden emotions through this new bond forged between them, and his resentment towered like a black cloud over her. His usually expressive face was schooled to blankness—probably a bad sign.

As they made their way down the hillside, she grappled with her refusal to be open about their love. How could she hope for him to understand what she herself could not? She dared not trust it, what they had… knew all too well from her parents that the bright fire of passion had its darker face, that just beyond the heights of pleasure lay treacherous depths of hurt. Neither could she trust this incandescent happiness she felt… it was too unaccustomed… too new...felt too fragile. She feared it. Feared that to grasp at it would be to destroy it. Shatter it like glass.

Already she felt she was destroying it. _That is all you do—bring things to ruin. Pushing him away when all you long to do is cling. Speaking hard, curt words when all your heart truly wants to say… is…_

_No. Do not say it. Do not even think it._

The silence between them grew unbearable. “Wait,” she said suddenly, and they halted. They faced each other. She saw the hurt smouldering in his violet eyes.

“I’m… not good at this,” she said.

“I can tell.”

Suddenly she was swamped by a sense of impending loss. How swiftly the midsummer _enquië_ had flown past…already there was a nostalgic ache as she thought back on the carefree, rapturous joy of their six days in the hills. _We may never be so happy again._ “Let us not go down yet. One more day. Let it—let it not—not _end_ yet.”

The anger in his eyes melted away. “That would be the surest way of giving us away, _melissë,”_ he said gently. “They expect us back. They would begin to send out search parties.” He reached out and stroked her cheek. “Why must you speak of endings? We are just beginning.”

“It will be different...back in the house.”

“True. But why should different be bad? We will still be together every evening. And,” he smiled impishly, “we will at last have the comforts of a bed. If you miss the hills, we could still meet at the love nest sometimes.”—which was what he called their high ledge by the waterfalls, an hour’s climb from the house.

After a lingering kiss, she turned to head directly down the slope, and he to skirt around to the south and approach the house from the Bruinen… but then, with a suddenness that almost caught even him off-guard, she whirled back around, leaped upon him, wound herself tightly around him, and kissed him breathless. Then tore herself away, and swiftly raced down the slope.

Watching her as she disappeared, he thought with a pang, _it is going to be a long day._

 

Maeglin had barely lifted her hand to knock on his door when it swung open, and she was pulled in and smothered in a golden whirlwind of an embrace.

“Was that only sixteen hours?” he exclaimed. “I missed you so much it felt like a month!”

She had felt it just as much if not more, but in the middle of the next hungry kiss, her black eyes widened as they wandered over his bedchamber.

“What do you have here?” she gasped as she pulled her lips away from his. “An armoury?”

He leaned his cheek against her dark hair as he held her against his side, and tried to see the familiar walls through her eyes. “Things gathered over five millennia. Keepsakes from my travels. Gifts from friends.”

It was a long, spacious, high-ceilinged room. A hanging tapestry of a stag and a hunting party in a forest curtained off his wardrobe and the entrance to the bathchamber. Against the tapestry was a bed whose four wooden posts, shaped like graceful birch saplings, curved upwards to grow into the pale stone ceiling on which a forest canopy of leaves, flowers, and birds was carved. Lamps carved like vines and fruit grew out from the walls and bedposts, but none were lit that night. White moonlight poured through the four arched windows in the far wall. But it was not any of these that had arrested Maeglin’s attention.

Arrayed on the walls was a range of exquisitely crafted swords, spears, battle axes, shields, chainmail, plate armour, helmets, and assorted lethal weaponry. Pulling him by his hand, she moved forward to examine his collection with a curious and critical eye.

“It’s… beautiful,” she said in a hushed voice.

Glowing with pleasure, he walked at her side and introduced some of his favourite pieces to her—each piece exceptional for its kind, or with a story behind it.

She crossed over to a ferocious-looking halberd mounted on the wall, took it down, hefted it, and gave it a swing. “I’ve not seen many of these. Would not have thought it your style. Arnorian?”

“Fifth century Gondor,” he replied. “And all because you’ve not seen me fight with one does not mean it is not my style.”

With a gleam in her eyes, she took down another halberd and tossed it to him. “Show me, then, my tutor.” And she struck a fighting stance.

“Only if I get to choose an item of your clothing to remove each time I score a point, _cundunya._ ” His blue eyes sparkled as he twirled the two-rangar-long halberd. “And once it’s all off—you’re mine.”

She tingled with anticipation as she smiled, and hoisted the halberd. “Bring it on.”

 

The silvery moonlight spilling into the room showed the trail of clothes across the grey stone floor… and the halberds lying discarded near the windows. And illuminated the rumpled sheets at the foot of his bed.

“That was possibly the shortest fighting lesson in history,” he said, as they both caught their breaths.

“And the most enjoyable ending.”

His eyes twinkled merrily. “I have to tell you, my shy and secret _melissë_ , that if anything gives us away it is likely to be you.”

“Oh.” She frowned, worried, and chose to overlook his calling her ‘shy’. “Do you think anyone—?”

“If they were anywhere below these windows, yes, I’m sure they did.”

“I shall be quiet as a mole from henceforth.”

He laughed. “ _No!_ I _like_ you not in control.”

“Really. Such as when I tried to slice you to pieces.” Her fingers began idly to play with a bright golden lock.

“Such as when you let go… allow yourself to be happy.”

“I would not be happy if anyone knew.” She took one of her own black locks, and began to weave their hair together in a four-stranded braid. _Black, gold, black, gold, black, gold..._

As he lay watching her, he was filled with sudden wonder. “Think of it… Just seven days ago I would never have _dreamed_ of us—”

She interrupted him with a snort of derision and raised herself on one elbow. The silken braid fell from her hands and unravelled. “Oh, you most certainly were _dreaming_ about us. Did you imagine I would forget the depraved propositions you made to me in the healing halls?”

He looked at her in shock. “Depraved propositions?”

She told him.

“I did not!” he scoffed. “I would _never_ have said such things. It never happened.”

“Are you accusing me of fabricating it?” she snapped, sitting up suddenly. “Or imagining it? I absolutely loathed you. You were the last person I’d ever have had such thoughts about.” And she jabbed him sharply in the ribs causing him to burst out in laughter.

“Ow! Not _then,_ of course. But obviously my little flower is imagining them right now!”—He chuckled as _“little flower”_ earned a clout on the head from her—“I definitely have no objections whatsoever if you want _that_. But I am certain I would _never_ have uttered anything of that sort back then to you or any _nís.”_

Maeglin looked at him with the most regal hauteur. “None of that was from _my_ imagination. I had _no_ thought of such things before.”

“Did I deflower an innocent maid?” He pulled her down to him for a wanton kiss. “Come on, my prince—whatever we have done, and you are thinking of now, you must have imagined doing with Itarillë. Daily. Confess it.”

She raised her eyebrows and feigned ladylike shock as she lay on his chest and looked down at him. “I never imagined anything of that nature with regards to Itarillë,” she said, with a primness incongruent with the way she had just kissed him. “My knowledge of such matters was too… basic for that.”

“Are you in earnest? Did your father never give you the talk on the ways of a man with a woman?”

“Perhaps he was saving up the finer technicalities for when he’d marry me off to some kinswoman of Thingol to strengthen ties with Doriath.”

Glorfindel was shocked. “He would not!” Political marriages among _edain_ were commonplace, but unheard of among Eldar.

“Don’t put it past him. But he never educated me in the matters _you_ did in that treatment room. Admit you did.”

“How can I admit what I never did? What exactly did I say?” His face was a study in innocence and perplexity. Perplexity because he truly had no recollection of the incident she recounted. He watched sparks of golden fire begin to flicker wickedly in her eyes. She smirked.

“Allow me to demonstrate, _melindo.”_

And to his surprise and delight, her lips and tongue travelled down the length of his body and proceeded to show him just what a pair of beautiful lips could do to a very sensitive part of his anatomy.

And the balrog slayer thought he had died again and the Second Music had begun.

_“Ai! Hîr_ Glorfindel! Thanks be to Elbereth you are here!” cried the dulcet voice from on high. “Oh, please help me!”

High above in the summer foliage of a tall elm tree, a maiden dangled by her hands from a branch.

His heart sank. _Not again._ But conditioned by millennia of chivalry, he merely smiled gallantly, and said, as he strode over to the elm tree, “Eiliannel, what happened this time?”

“I slipped,” she murmured forlornly. Eiliannel the lute-player had required some form of rescue by the hero almost every five _coranári_ over the past two millennia _._ One had to admire her regularity.

Earlier in the Third Age, incidents of distressed Imladrin maidens who had needed help from the balrog slayer had occurred at least once a month, peaking in springtime.

If the fair one was not stuck up a tree, she might need to be carried to the healing hall with a twisted ankle.

Or she might most urgently need to move a heavy object. A weaving loom. A large harp. A wardrobe in her bedchamber.

Or she might have dropped something into a body of water, be it the pond, the fountain, or the Bruinen. Whatever had been dropped, be it a bracelet, a circlet, or a ring, it would unfailingly be too far out and too deep to be retrieved by any method except by diving in—which suggested to Glorfindel that the object in question could have been flung rather than dropped. And the _elleth_ always seemed to have been mysteriously stricken by an inability to swim.

And all of these incidents would occur when there was no one else in sight to render aid except for the gallant golden-haired elflord.

Thankfully, the decline of the valley’s population had witnessed a decline in such incidents. This was the first in a long while, even given the fact that Glorfindel had been away for over a year. And he was glad he did not need to plunge into water this time. He was never sure which was worse—stripping down to his leggings or leaving his shirt on. In either scenario, the sight of him dripping wet seemed to delight his long-term admirers unfailingly, and that always disturbed and puzzled him.

“I can hold on no longer,” cried the fair one faintly. “ _Edraith enni!”_

“Let go. I shall catch you,” said Glorfindel, positioning himself below matter-of-factly. After dangling from a tree so many times, she should know the drill.

She released the branch, fell gracefully with a swirl of silken lilac skirts into his waiting arms, and clung to him tightly. “ _Ai,_ _Hîr_ Glorfindel,” she cried with joyful relief, “How may I show you my gratitude?”

“Stay on the ground from now on, Eiliannel,” said Glorfindel, setting her down on her feet. “Life in the tree-tops is obviously not for you.”

Her arms remained locked tightly around his neck. Her hair smelled of honeysuckle and lilies. “Oh, _hîr-nin,_ I missed you when you were away for so long.” She pressed her fair bosom and her warm, lithe body against his and smiled up at him sweetly with large amber eyes under long, brown lashes… just as Glorfindel looked over the sward and saw Maeglin standing framed in a gap between tall yew hedges leading to an intricate garden maze.

It was a fortnight since their binding, and they had agreed to meet in his chamber in the hour before dinner, but she must have come out to the gardens to surprise him as he returned from the archery practice field.

His blood ran cold as his eyes met the fiery obsidian ones of his bondmate. He feared she would come over and rip the lute player’s still-beating heart out with her bare hands.

As Maeglin swung around on her heel and stormed off into the maze, he murmured a hurried courtesy to Eiliannel, removed her arms from his neck rather unceremoniously, and gave chase. The astonished _elleth_ blinked and turned, but her hero had already vanished into the opening in the hedges.

She sighed dispiritedly, then consoled herself. There would always be tomorrow. And the next _coranar_ …

Glorfindel caught up with his love in one of the corridors of the maze, and she swung around on him with a livid snarl.

“Damn you! Do not touch me, do not even come near me.”

“What did you expect me to do – shove her away and tell her to get lost?”

“Yes! That is precisely what I would have expected you to do. I would in your place!”

“That is not my way! I’ve been dealing with this for thousands of years, _melmenya!_ There is always a gentle way of getting out of these things.”

“The way you let her press up against you – you disgust me!”

“Ah, but I did not press back! That is what matters.”

“You were enjoying it too much.”

“I was _not_ enjoying it – all right, well, maybe a little. _Wait!_ _melmenya_ , I was _teasing!_ I did _not_ enjoy it at all. Truly. Do you know how annoying it is to have had to fend off female advances for six thousand years?”

“Obviously I do not,” came the reply, as frigid as the Helcaraxë, as she disappeared further into the maze.

And she did not thaw out for the next _enquië_.

Not one word. Not one look.

To be completely shunned and ignored, after two short weeks of the sweetest conjugal bliss, plunged Glorfindel into the most abject depths of misery.

He paced outside her door near midnight for the sixth night in a row, knowing that she could sense him there, as he sensed her within the room. And finally, he heard the bolt slide open.

“Get in here before someone sights you,” she growled, and retreated back into the chamber.

It was his first time into her room since that first night she had spent there, nine years ago. It was much as he would have expected. Dark colours. Elegant. Spare. He had little concern for furnishing or décor at that moment, however.

“ _Vesseya_ —” he began.

She held up a hand to silence him. “I will not have it.” Her voice seethed with anger. “Fool around one more time with any of those trollops, and it’s over.”

He looked at her stunned for a moment. “Stop it! You cannot shed what we have as easily as peeling off a pair of gloves. Were all the waters of Alatairë to sunder us, still we would be joined. As Elrond and Celebrían are. To attempt to undo our bond would be to rend the very fabric of our _fëar_.”

“I—will— _not_ — _tolerate_ you fooling around in that manner!” she snarled, and he dodged as a large book on a nearby table was hurled at him. He swiftly moved forward and caught her wrists before she could grab hold of a poker from the unlit fireplace. Her wild, angry dark eyes glared into his and he glared back.

“‘Fooling around’? I do _not_ fool around! Ever! Listen—I cannot rebuff any in need of succour, whether they be _neri_ or _nissi_ , nor will I be harsh to them. That is not my way. But I swear this—I will do naught that dishonours my bond with you. My heart is yours alone. How the _nissi_ choose to behave is beyond my control—they have been at this for millennia and will still be so… unless… _you_ end it. End it by ending this absurd secrecy. Make our binding known to all.”

Her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched.

Jealousy… Maeglin’s familiar demon. For a century and a half its black claws had raked through his tormented _fëa_ , consumed him with hatred for the Lord of the Golden Flower, and then for the Lord of the Wing. And now, the irony. One that Maeglin had been jealous of had become the very one she was jealous over. And in her breast now surged a madness so much more intense than even that first had been, fuelling a murderous, possessive rage to hurt and maim and kill. For he was _hers_ , and her greatest terror—that he be taken from her. Bewildered, she could not understand her irrational impulse to drive away that which she feared most to lose—in the end, it was her own self she hurt most.

He watched her warily. He could feel the inner war within her. She said nothing, but after a while he felt her wrists no longer straining against his grip. He released his hold, and one of her hands went up to wind in his bright hair and pull his head down, the other to tug him towards her by his shirt, and she pressed her mouth to his. Relieved, he wrapped her in his arms, and they forgot all for a moment in the sweet heat of their embrace and kiss.

But when their lips parted at last, she muttered, “If any of those trollops go too far, I’ll skewer her on a halberd.”

 

Glorfindel lay against the warm curve of Maeglin’s back, his arm draped over her waist, listening to her breathing and her heartbeat as she slept. Feeling them.

After a sleepless six nights, he was yet wakeful. Despite how very satisfying the passionate lovemaking of their reconciliation had been, something troubled him...

Apart from the insane jealousy.

Apart from her insistence on secrecy.

Apart from the fact that she had not once said she loved him… He did not need words, though they would have been sweet. How she touched him, how she kissed, told him enough. 

What haunted him most was that moment she had drawn back sharply from his mind-touch on the mountainside. And never let him in again. _We are meant to have so much_ _more_ … He could feel, deep within, an empty place where they should be one, where their _fëar_ should meet. But she had erected her Great Gate of Steel against his intrusion, and should he try to breach it, she might only withdraw further. Or take flight again.

What secrets lurked in her dark _fëa_ that she feared him knowing?

Did he _want_ to know?

_Be content… what you have now is so much more than you ever dreamed of having…_

He had begun to drift into sleep when he suddenly jerked wide awake. Her body had grown rigid against his, her breathing ragged, her heart racing. But it was the disturbance deep in his _fëa_ , sensing hers, that had woken him. _Rage, excruciating pain, terror._

He shook her. “ _A cuiva,_ _melmenya!_ —” But as on that night long ago, his efforts were futile, and she dreamt on; the torment he saw in her face, that he felt tangibly with his _fëa_ , was intensifying.

He could bear it no longer. Effortlessly, his _fëa_ melded with hers, and he slipped into her dream as he had once before.

_Angband._

_Moringotto… the Iron Crown…_

_The onslaught of pain beyond imagining._

But something else, this time. A gloating face. A taunting voice. _How could anything be so infernal, so heinous… and yet fair?_  

And though the face was strange to him, he _knew it_. Knew it from the way his skin crawled, from the unlight of an aura familiar to him from an age past.  

 _Annatar. Sauron. Tar-Mairon._ Whatever the name, whatever the form, or the face, or the voice, he recognized that evil, and his hackles rose… and all his training in the gardens of Estë and all his instincts as a healer and warrior screamed out to him to launch into battle without delay, and rescue Maeglin out of that nightmare _now._

But he was also a lord of Gondolin, once betrayed… he wanted the truth, wanted answers. And he was a lover shut out from the beloved’s innermost chamber… desperate for an insight, a glimpse of the hidden secrets. _I need to know… I need to understand…_

And it terrified him… what he might see. What he might learn. But yet he held on. Waited. Watched it. _Lived_ it. Moment by moment… the promise dangled… betrayal… a regret and horror that almost made him weep... the unexpected shock of the golden-haired prisoner... then Sauron lifting the prince off his feet…

A sudden, vicious onslaught of foulness and malevolence beyond comprehension. And pain. Pain that made the earlier torments laughable.

Suffocating under the vile assault, under the obscene abomination of this violation of every level of his being, Glorfindel could be still no longer. Light unfurled into the darkness like a banner of war, and his song of power flowed with healing into her _fëa_ and soared up against the demons of the dream _._

And it was gone.

As he had nine years ago, he sat on the bed and held her in his arms. Only now she was awake, and shivering, and strangled whimpers and gasps came from her throat. He felt himself trembling as well, drained by his exertion, and shaken deeply by what he had witnessed. “You are safe…” he said gently, holding her close. “You are safe. It’s over. It was only a dream.”

Her head lifted slowly. The horror in the black eyes was directed at him. As though it had been he, not Sauron, who had raped her mind and spirit.

“H-how—how _d-dare_ you!” Her voice quavered, but she had strength enough to push him away, and with such force that she tumbled backwards, fell right off the bed, and landed hard on the floor.

In a split-second he was off the bed and at her side, but she struck out violently at him.

“Stay _out of my mind!_ ” she screamed, shrinking from him like a cornered animal. “You have _no right_ — _no right_ —get out!—stay out of my mind!” Scrambling to her feet, she stumbled into the bathchamber.

Made slow by shock and hurt, he found himself shut out for a second time that same night. The door slammed, and the bolt within slid home with a loud _clack_.

He leaned his head against the door wretchedly, cursing himself.

He had made a promise to her on the mountainside to never intrude into her mind again. And he had broken it.

_How can I ever win back her trust?_

Yet how could he have stood by and watched her suffering, her torment, and done naught?

Leaning his back against the door frame, he closed his eyes and the scenes of the dream replayed in his head. All was clear now. All made sense. The changes they had observed in the prince when he had returned to Gondolin. And why Annatar’s charming, mocking smile had haunted Glorfindel as so familiar, when he had first seen it in Lindon.

 _The torment._ The more Glorfindel dwelled on the tortures and the torment the traitor had endured… within Angband… and after… the greater his own anguish grew.

Two hours passed. He paced restlessly outside the bath chamber door. Then heard at last the slide of the bolt. The door slowly swung open.

She stood in the doorway with her black hair falling across her face and clothing her nakedness. She held herself as though cold, as fragile as thin glass. Through the curtain of dark hair, the obsidian eyes glittered, ringed with dark shadows. Their black depths were clouded with fear. And dread.

He came forward. Cradled her face gently in his hands. Held her as she wept. Carried her back to bed and offered her love and healing in the way she understood best.

As the sky lightened outside her window, they lay entwined. He looked into her eyes, and saw that they were clear. And serene.

“Forgive me,” he said at last. “I know I should not have… but I could not see you suffer, and do nothing.”

 She said nothing. _Something has happened._ She could not grasp it. Something had… been broken. In a place deep within, where only darkness had been, she saw _light._

She buried her face in his neck and held him to her tightly. Breathing in his scent which always made her think of sun-warmed meadows and a forest after rain... the distilled essence of summer. She felt her _fëa_ float feather-free in the light of his.

_Hantanyet…_

His heart bounded with joy like a deer, at that one word whispered soft to his mind.

And with that, the Great Gate of Steel fell.

 

 _“Just back off, Laurefindel!”_ The words shouted in his mind.

Early autumn. By starlight, he saw the flash of anger cross her face as they and the six other warriors of the night patrol picked their way through the corpses of orcs on the forest ground and regrouped in a clearing. Glorfindel had a quick word with the rest, and they mounted their steeds.

 _“Back off? Melmenya, what do you mean?”_ he asked her as he rode at the rear, still on the alert for danger in their surroundings. Emlindir took the front. She rode in the middle with the rest. They often had these little conversations now, mind-to-mind, whenever they met during the day, she maintaining perfect indifference toward him outwardly, and he the most detached courtesy.

_“Let us look at your tally. Seven orcs? Nine? And how many did you allow me to kill?”_

He swallowed. Probably two. No. Make that one. _“Forgive me, melmenya. I could not help it. It is natural for me to protect you.”_ Silence. He looked at her straight, proud back, in front of him. _“Melmenya?”_

But she ignored him for the rest of the patrol.

Back at the house, he managed to get his shoulder in the door before she could slam it in his face. They stood in her chamber, dressed still in their orc-blood-spattered armour. She threw her sword on the bed—Idril’s sword—and cast him a death-glare before beginning to remove her armour. He began to remove his as well. By now they kept changes of clothing in each other’s rooms.

“Forgive me.”

“Stop riding with my patrols.”

“It is perfectly usual for me to ride out with the patrols.”

“But why always _my_ patrol? You stay close to me. You take down my foes for me. How do you think it looks?”

“In the heat of battle, honestly, my love, no one would notice.”

“This is not about others noticing,” she said bitingly, as she removed her last piece of armour, the breastplate.  “I fought in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad just as you did. I led my house into battle just as you led yours. You insult me with your protection!” She stormed off into the bath chamber.

“I _know_ you do not _need_ my protection. That does not mean I would not want to give it!” he said, tossing his last piece of armour aside and pursuing her. “I love you. I will always want to protect you!”

To which she told him something obscenely rude that he could do, as she began to draw the bath.

He joined her and said nothing for a while. Then: “I could not bear it if anything happened to you. Anything.”

“I can take care of myself.”

“Oh? Like you did last winter? Like you did in the Nirnaeth?”

Words he regretted the moment they left his mouth. The only sound was water running into the bath. Piercing black eyes drilled into him, glinting dangerously.

“So,” she said slowly, “Does that mean I am weak? Inferior as a warrior?” She shed her undergarments, dropping them on a stool.

“No! You are a good warrior—” He was removing his own.

“Oh, ‘good’. Not great. Not the greatest warrior in Endórë.” She picked up his shed garments from the floor with a frown, having already told him a dozen times not to do it, and dropped them on the stool with hers.

“That is the truth. But I respect you—”

“I spit on your respect, if this is how you show it—”

“You have been wounded before. You could be wounded again! And I do not know how I could bear that. I am not as fearless as I used to be. The thought of you being hurt… of losing you…” Even for a while. How long would Mandos keep her, a second time? A century? Another six thousand years?

Think not even of death. Just the thought of her wounded, or in pain…

She looked at him with her sharp gaze. “Your scars outnumber mine by over a hundred.” The finest network of silver on his skin, glistening and visible if he stood in sunlight... “You almost died at Barad-dûr. You have almost died at least a dozen times since you set foot on Endórë again.  Each time you ride out, I know that you will place yourself where the fighting is thickest, that you will take on ten times more than all the others, and risk yourself more than all the rest. And still I must let you go,” she said. “You are not the only one with fears.”

He gazed back at her in silence.

“We are warriors. This comes with the territory.” She shrugged with a casualness she did not feel.

“Just promise me you will not be reckless.”

She gave a short laugh. “As _you_ are not reckless?” She tossed a handful of bath salts into the water.

He did not speak. He stooped to stir the bath salts into the water with his hand. When he finally looked up at her, his eyes were grave. “Very well. I shall let you fight your battles. As you let me fight mine. I promise.”

She smiled wryly, kissed him, and pulled him into the bath with her.  

And he took down her foes for her no more.

 

Her eyes flicked up quickly from the piece of jewellery she was crafting. She sensed before she heard the sound at the smithy window that he was out there.

Two clicks, then the window latch flipped opened, and the shutters swung open to show a tall golden lord in an ivory and gold festive robe, crowned with a garland of red and russet-brown autumn leaves. Behind him, through the almost-bare branches of the apple trees, a huge harvest moon hung golden in the dark, star-strewn sky.

Music and laughter floated on the air over the frosty meadow and to the smithy. In the great house of Imladris, the Autumn Feast was in full swing.

“What are you _doing?_ I _told_ you—” she said sharply, her tools still in her hand.

“—to stay _out_ of your workroom—and so I am!” He tossed high the slender gold wire he had used to open the window, and caught it again. “But who said I cannot stand outside the window and talk to my wife?” He twisted the wire back into a hair clasp and pushed it into the braids at the back of his head.

“Oh, get in here!” she said in the voice of one goaded beyond endurance. “Hurry! Before someone sees you.”

He needed no further invitation. With a grin, he swung himself gracefully through the window frame, and closed the shutters behind him.

“Why did you not tell me you were skipping the feast?”

“I… wished to finish work on something.” She was wearing a silver circlet and a dress of deep wine red, and it looked incongruous with her smith’s apron. As though she had prepared to join the festivities then changed her mind.

“I can bear it if you ignore me the whole evening,” he said. “Just as long as you are there. Will you come in soon?”

She did not say anything. She removed her apron, went to him, and slipped something into his hand.

He looked down upon a golden brooch shaped like a sun-burst blossom with eight petals. An exact replica of the one that had been pinned on the swaddling cloth of a baby as a parting gift from his father-sister. And lost in the fall of Gondolin.

“Begetting Day wishes of joy, _melindo_ … a little early.”

“It is… perfect.” He was deeply moved.

She took it from him and pinned it on the front of his robe. No one would know its significance except they two. “Go. I need to tidy up this place. I shall lock up the smithy and come later. Go now.”

“Not yet—there is something I would like to do first.” He swept her a gallant bow, and with a graceful flourish, his hand stretched out to her in invitation. “Come, my love—may I have one dance?” His smile lit up the workroom almost as much as the lamp did, and his azure eyes sparkled bright. The merry lilt of lute and pipe carried to them through the closed window shutters.

Her eyebrow lifted. “You know full well I do not dance… cousin.”

“Allow me to teach you! None may see us here. Who knows—you may like it! How would you know, if you never try?” He caught hold of her by the waist, lifted her, and spun her around till she was dizzy, and she laughed in spite of herself.

“That is enough,” she said as he set her back on her feet. “There. I have danced. Satisfied?”

“Nowhere close. Here—” Holding her hand in his, he skilfully spun her across the floor between the worktables until she fell into his arms, dizzy and chuckling. “Did you like that?”

“Not as much as I would like _this._ ” Laughing, she slipped a knowing hand into his robes and begun to  undo the fastenings of his breeches.

“You merely seek to distract me!” he said indignantly.

“And why would you not let me succeed?”

In one moment, they had swept one worktable clear, and in the next she was on the table with her skirts up and her legs wrapped around his waist when cheerful voices suddenly sounded somewhere outside.

“ _Ae!_ Lómiel! Open up, _mellon-nín!”_

“We know you are there!”

Maeglin stifled a curse and there was a brief scuffle as she attempted to shove Glorfindel into the small store room nearby. Glorfindel, after a silent but vehement exchange of thoughts with her, rolled his eyes skyward, heaved an exasperated sigh, and allowed himself to be shoved. The loud voices and laughter were now directly outside the shutters of the workroom.

Scowling as she opened the window, she saw Elrohir, Thalanes, and Camaen standing there and grinning at her, autumn garlands on their heads.

 _“Mellon-nín!_ You don a lovely dress, then hide yourself here?” Thalanes reproved her.

“Ay! what is this, _híril-nín?”_ scolded Elrohir, climbing in. “First Tarnin Austa, and now the Autumn Festival displeases you?”

“We brought you a garland.”

“And wine!”

“And fruits!”

“Roasted meats.”

“Mooncakes!”

“If you will not deign to come to the feast…”

“The feast will come to you!” By now the three of them had climbed into the workroom through the window, and Elrohir placed the garland on her hair.

“Say, has anyone seen Glorfindel?” said Elladan, coming up at the rear. “I have not been able to find him.”

“My thanks to all of you, _mellyn-nín,”_ Maeglin said hurriedly. “Please return to the house. I shall join you shortly.”

“Oh, we can make merry here! Never fear!” Elrohir seated himself on the table as Elladan began to climb in through the window.

“What happened here?” said Camaen, bending to pick up tools from the floor, swept from the table by the lovers as they cleared it. It was unlike her, for she was neat and organized to a fault.

“I was careless. Please, allow me.” She gathered up the remaining tools and looked at them all. “You should search for Glorfindel, _mellyn-nín._ He might be with Erestor and Lindir.”

“Let us all go together to find him, then!” said Elrohir.

“Oh, very well.” Maeglin hurriedly tidied her tools. “Done. Let us go.”

“What was that sound?” said Elladan, turning his head towards the store room.

“Could it be a mouse?” said Camaen. “We should catch it!”

“Of course not! When have we ever had mice in the smithy?” said Maeglin sharply, as Camaen headed towards the store room to investigate. “It was nothing. Let us go.”

A golden head appeared at the window. “There you all are!” Glorfindel said severely. “How could you have a private celebration without me?”

“Glorfindel! We were about to return to the house!”

“Where were you? I searched!”

As they walked away from the smithy, a silent exchange took place amid the laughter and noisy chatter of the group.

_“How did you get out?”_

_“The store room window.”_

_“What?? It is too small, too high, and locked!”_ The key hung by the forge, at the other end of the smithy.

 _“I have skills.”_ His robe was pristine, and not a leaf was out of place in his autumn garland.

Maeglin could not help but smile at him in admiration.

But the slender gold wire of the hair clasp had been bent so out of shape, that it needed some repair by her the next day.

 

Glorfindel found that love made him do that which he would usually not. Like eavesdrop on his captain disciplining a _maethor_.

“What were you thinking?” said Captain Aníraeth sharply. She was a lean, wiry veteran of the Last Alliance with chestnut-brown hair. “Breaking ranks against my explicit command! Putting yourself and your comrades at risk!”

“I do not see that I did. The two _yrch_ were escaping and I gave chase. I knew I was their match.”

“And you saw the fourteen _yrch_ coming in from the south, outnumbering and outflanking us.” Aníraeth’s voice was dry and hard.

“I did. I judged that I had the speed to slay the two and regroup in time. And I did so.”

“Barely. You exposed yourself to danger needlessly. A warrior who disobeys orders has no place in the guard. Am I clear?”

The tense silence that followed was almost unbearable for the Commander of Imladris. Exactly what he had feared when the prince of Gondolin joined the Imladrin patrols. The pride. The arrogance. The inability to take orders from another. The reckless risk-taking.

“I apologise, _Hest-nín_ ,” said the _maethor_ quietly and clearly. “It will not happen again.”

Quickly looking around to see that no one observed them, Glorfindel fell in step with Maeglin as she left the guards room and walked back with her to their wing.

“You were listening in,” she said without looking at him.

“Yes.” He was bursting with pride, and trying not to smile. They ascended the stairs to their level.

She shrugged. “I am neither _cundu_ nor _cáno_ now. I am _ohtar._ ”

“You could be promoted to _cáno_ some day. But you would have to leave the smithy.”

“Never. And I know why you were listening. You were afraid I was going to quarrel with her.” They reached the door of her room.

“It would have been like you, _cundunya,_ ” he said with a smile as she opened the door. Once he was safely in through the doorway, he could not resist adding, “A more arrogant and overbearing brat there never was.”

“Brat?” Her eyes flashed golden fire. She flung her gauntlet at his head, and he caught it with a grin. _“Brat?”_

“Mm-hmm.” He closed the door behind them.

“Was that the common opinion of all the lords of Gondolin?” She demanded as she began to strip off her armour and hang the pieces on a rack.

“Pretty much, though we never actually voiced it.” He gave her a hand with some of the straps. “You always managed to get your way. What did Turukáno ever deny you?" ... _Besides his daughter._ Words that did not need to be spoken.  "A House of your own? It’s yours, Lómion. The best smiths of the city for your House? Of course, Lómion—”

“I invited, they accepted. I made no demands of the king for men. I never _stole_ anyone from Rauco—”

“Who would dare refuse you? Leave Tumladen to mine ores? Certainly, Lómion. Refuse to remain in the city as regent during a war? No problem, Lómion—”

“His love,” she said abruptly. “Turukáno gave me all I asked of him. But not his love.”

And Glorfindel suddenly saw that it was true. The King had honoured his dead sister’s son in every way he could. A blind love, many had called it, for it seemed the boy could do no wrong. Aredhel was barely cold in her tomb when the young half-blood had been officially declared Prince of Gondolin. In ten years, he had his own house and became the youngest Lord of Gondolin. During the Nirnaeth, he had been chosen as regent, though he had declined. And years later, when he had re-appeared after a mysterious absence, the King had not even questioned him.

But it had been guilt, not love. Guilt for the little sister Turgon had failed to protect. For the boy he had orphaned. He saw his dead sister each time he looked at his nephew’s fair face, and the dark elf he had executed each time he looked into the prince’s obsidian eyes. From the beginning the king had seen, in his nephew, blood tainting forever the city that had been pure white.

Maeglin’s armour was stripped off. She stood there proud yet vulnerable, strong yet slender in her undergarments. And Glorfindel gazing into her dark eyes saw briefly the orphaned boy who had just lost his father and buried his mother. Alone and adrift in a strange city.

Then it was gone. “Stars, I’m damn hungry. But I want a bath before breakfast.” She walked briskly toward the bath chamber. “Care to join me for a quick one?”

And following her, he promised himself he would give her all the love she would ever need.

 

“Don’t leave me.”

Waking to find her clinging tightly to him, Glorfindel guessed easily it was another dream. Through the autumn and the dark winter months he had thought he had seen the whole gamut of nightmares from her infancy to the last breath of her first life. But this was new. As he entered her dreamworld, he saw there no vivid scenes of the first life.

No angry fathers screaming curses, no orcs or dark lords, no dungeons, no blond mortals.

Just a huge darkness. A formless emptiness like the Timeless Void.

And Maeglin, an infinitesimal, insignificant speck lost in it.

_Alone._

“Don’t leave me. Please.”

The voice was so hollow, so desolate, that it chilled Glorfindel. Had it been the plaintive, pleading voice of a child, had it wept or raged, he would have borne it better. Not this hopelessness. This bleak futility, this fatality: that everything, everything in the end, would always come to ruin and nothingness. Abandonment. He remembered the night of Aredhel’s funeral again…

He held her close to him and kissed her hair. “Who’s leaving?” he said softly. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.” Into the black void of her dream, his light gently stole. “You won’t get rid of me so easily.”

A small noise escaped from her, half a whimper, half a sob. In her sleep, she buried her face in his neck, and clung to him so tightly that his heart broke.

He held her through the night, singing softly, and fell asleep just before dawn.

And when she woke in the morning, as the first rays of the sun began to thaw the valley from its winter whiteness, she recalled nothing.

 

“Come with me to Lindon.”

“No! What excuse could I give?”

“Why is there need for any excuse? Just say you desire to see the world. You have been here for ten years. Camaen could hardly begrudge you a leave of absence for a few months.”

She looked about the workroom. “There is all this work…”

“The truth is, you have given Camaen less and less to do over the years. Which is why he was able to finally find time in his life for a little romance. But now that he is betrothed to Thalanes and nicely settled, it is your time to rest. Especially since Camaen has a new apprentice.”

“That child. He knows next to nothing! All the more I need to be here.” A young lad of thirty-five, one of Estel’s childhood companions, had just joined the smithy.

“Camaen managed for forty-seven years by himself before you came here, _meldanya_. He can manage for five months alone. You take too much upon yourself. And work far too hard!” Glorfindel chided her. “Camaen would be the first to agree. Come with me! There is so much I want to show you!”

She looked at him uncertainly. “If we leave the valley at the same time, and are away for so long, it would be too obvious.”

“They can guess for all I care. You know how I feel about all this secrecy.”

In the end, despite all her misgivings, both the thought of being separated from him whilst he visited Círdan and the lure of travelling with him were too great.  

So she travelled westward on foot with Gildor Inglorion, who usually wintered in the valley and departed with his company of Noldorin exiles as the first buds of spring began to open.

Glorfindel headed to Mithlond on horseback by a different route across Eriador, escorting a group of Imladrim who were sailing west. His errand completed, he visited Círdan briefly, dispatched a message to Elrond, then rode back eastward with Asfaloth.

Ten leagues east of Mithlond were the Emyn Beraid, and rising from the hills were three elven towers, built by Gil-galad—the first cousin Maeglin had read so much of but never met. The towers rose tall, white and slender beneath a windswept sky.

The lovers met at the foot of Elostirion—the tallest tower on the tallest hill—and all around them the world was verdant with the life of spring, with lush green grasses and spring wildflowers. Hand-in-hand, they climbed to the chamber at the top of the tower. There the high windows faced west, and from them Maeglin had earlier had a glimpse of an expanse of water in the distance: the Gulf of Lhûn, and her first glimpse of the sea. And there, at the centre of the chamber on a stone column, sat the one palantir through which one could still glimpse Eldamar.

He turned to her as they set foot in the chamber. “Will you look into it with me?”

“No,” she said shortly. “Gildor invited me to. I declined.” The wanderer and his men had bidden her farewell just that morning and headed north towards Lake Nenuial, while she supposedly headed towards the southern ranges of the Ered Luin.

Glorfindel said nothing, but crossed over to the white globe and gazed into it as he had several times since Gil-galad had built the towers for Elendil in the last years of the Second Age. As Tol Eressëa appeared, fair and green through a rainbow mist, he felt Aman call to him as always… the city of Avallonë and its glimmering lights… the bright beacon of the Mindon Eldaliéva… glimpses of the Pelóri mountains… the soaring snow-peak of Taniquetil.

Always, this vision of beauty beyond all words had sung to him of _home_. More even than Gondolin. More even than Imladris. The rest and fulfilment that had eluded him there once, he would find there at last, when his time in Ennor was done.

But now, within him for the first time, a disquiet.

He lifted his head and turned to Maeglin. She stood watching him, dread lurking in her dark eyes.

What did that land across the seas have to offer her? Over there could be found the multitude she had betrayed… one she had lusted for in vain… one she had sought to kill... one hundred thousand whose deaths were upon her.

He knew where home was now, this moment, for the two of them.

As the western sun poured through the high window and illuminated the palantir with a brilliant white fire, he turned his back on it. And went to her.

 

The sun shone warm and golden on a beach of white rocks and pebbles, and little blue waves edged with lacy white foam lapped the shore of the sheltered cove.

Glorfindel sat sprawled among the rocks above the tideline, leaning his head back and soaking in the sunshine of what was proving to be an exceptionally warm spring, and looking as though every muscle in his body was completely and blissfully relaxed.

He opened his eyes and watched Maeglin as she walked at the edge of the eddying waves. It had been a joy to him to see the wonder of her first encounter with the sea, along the Gulf of Lhûn. They had wandered thirty leagues along the Harlindon coast, and spent some weeks swimming, fishing and gathering clams. As they walked the shoreline, or rode along it with Asfaloth, he had told her of his life in Nevrast, and they had swapped childhood tales.

Maeglin was enjoying herself, he knew. But he could also see the restlessness of one so used to work that she scarce knew how to be idle.

“Come here,” he said lazily. “You’re giving me a headache pacing about like that.”

As she sat between his legs, he kneaded the muscles in her neck and shoulders. “You have to learn to relax, _melmenya_. Feel the sun. Just enjoy it. Just be.” He pulled her back to lie against him. “Do not think.”

“How can one not think?”

Glorfindel was baffled by the question. “Just—don’t. Be the sun on your face, and the wind on your skin. Be the happiness in your heart, that you are alive...” He kissed her cheek. “…and that you have me…” he teased, and wrapped his arms around her. “…and just be.” He leaned back and closed his eyes again.

And she took a deep breath, and lay back against him, and closed her eyes, and tried.

 

The moon hung vast and white in a cloudless, starry sky. They walked through the still majestic ruins of Himring, hand in hand, listening to the haunting, melancholic booming of mighty waves pounding against the rocky shore. This sea was a different animal from the sheltered waters of the Gulf of Lhûn. It was a wild beast roaring and flinging itself against land, seeking to break it down and devour it. Ossë ruled here, not Uinen. Glorfindel found it exhilarating, Maeglin both feared and was in awe of it.

The strong sea winds whipped through their hair, golden and black, as they stood looking out at the restless ocean from beneath the ruined stone arches and columns. There was a desolate beauty in the moonlit landscape. All that remained of the ancient elven realms of Beleriand. Her fingers traced in wonder, on one pillar, the faint outline of the burning flames of the house of Fëanor engraved in stone, discernible even after over six millennia of assault by the elements.

“Maitimo used good stone,” she said approvingly.

They looked out at the ocean, where all they had once known now lay, beneath the waves.

“So your grave is still there, above the waves, as legend says?” she asked. Upon it, fair stalks of eight-petalled golden celandine blossomed still.

He smiled indifferently. “Yes. But what does it matter if it is or not? I am here.” He had visited it once, in the early Third Age. It had been, strangely enough, Lady Galadriel and Elrond who had prevailed upon him to return there. He was not inclined to be morbid.

Also strangely enough, it had been her idea to sail to Himring and look across the waters to where the Echoriad and Gondolin used to be. He had been afraid she would suggest going out to the island where his grave lay. But thankfully, she did not; perhaps it would have stirred her old demons too much.

They had found passage on a small Egladhrin vessel, which had promised to return to bring them back to the mainland in three days _._ Once back on the mainland, they would meet Asfaloth and journey back to Imladris past Lake Helevorn, down through dwarf country east of the Ered Luin, and through the Emyn Uial.

She was gazing to the south-west. “Nan Elmoth would have been there.”

He scrutinized her face with some concern, but saw nothing to worry him. Coming here was her way of coming to terms with her past. There had been no more nightmares for a long while. The healing was on its way.

Midsummer was still chilly in Himring, even for the Eldar. Feeling her hand grow a little cold in his, he gathered her in his arms and held her to warm her. Her black hair beat against his face, and she moved out of his embrace and lifted hands to braid it back.

“You do not have to do that,” he said, knowing how braiding annoyed her. “I like your hair loose.”

“And flying about in your face?”

“I mind it not at all,” he said truthfully. “Unless,” he added teasingly, “you are afraid your hair is starting to tangle.”

“My hair does _not_ tangle! Ever!” she snapped at him, ceasing her attempts to braid. “Does yours?”

“Never,” he grinned, and reached out for her.

Later that night, as they camped in a corner of the ruins more sheltered from the wind, she watched him as he slept.

She lay on her side, propping her head with an arm, lost in thought as she gazed at his serene, beautiful face, his dreaming azure eyes, and his golden hair gleaming warm in the cold moonlight.

She looked to their future with a twinge of trepidation. This warrior of Valinor would sail west... and she was certain she would never. Whenever she thought of it, it seemed to her that they had no future, and their bond no permanence. And so terrible was the anguish of that thought that she shrank from it, and thought instead of the past year.

One _coranar_. The most wondrous _coranar_ of her two lifetimes. Home for her now was wherever this hero sleeping before her was, and sailing to Aman a distant prospect. And as she looked at him, she felt him and all that he was, and was suddenly flooded with an incandescent joy that blotted out all fears of the future.

She was happy _now._ Happy with a happiness she had never dreamed of possessing just a year ago... Suddenly, it seemed to Maeglin that it had only been him she had ever loved, that even in Idril, a lifetime ago, it had been he she had been searching unknowingly for. A surge of intense tenderness for him and gratitude to all the powers that be flooded her. As she listened to the rhythmic thunder of the waves against the shore, and as the silver light of the stars and moon shone down on them, she murmured, “ _Melin tyë_ , Laurefindel.”

“What did you say?” he said, his blue eyes focusing into consciousness.

She rolled over and lay on her back, and stared up at the stars. “Nothing.”

He leaned over her, his golden hair falling over her face. “I heard you! Say it again.”

“I have no idea what you are talking about. You must have been dreaming.”

He began to tickle her. “Say it! I am not stopping till I hear it again.”

“Stop that!” she punched him, laughing. “Stop that!”

“I am merciless. Yield. Say it!”

And finally, after laughing so hard she hurt, she said through her chuckles, “I love you, I love you, I love you! Stop it! _”_

He stopped at once, his eyes dark violet and full of wonder. Then he kissed her. She smiled, and closing her eyes as she surrendered to his kiss and tangled her fingers in his bright golden hair, her _fëa_ spoke to his:

_“I love you.”_

And there was no more sleep that night.

 

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

enquië (Q) – elvish week of six days

Melissë (Q) – lover (female)

Melindo (Q) – lover (male)

Edraith nin (S) – save me

Eiliannel (S) - "eiliant" (rainbow) + "el" (star). Originally, I wrote Eiliantel, but it looked wrong. Thank Eru for dreamingfifi on realelvish dot proboards dot com who enlightened me that "intervocalic NT became NN in most dialects of Sindarin"

A cuiva (Q) – awaken (imperative)

Hest-nín (S) – my captain

Cáno (Q) – commander, leader

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Glorfindel's ability to really chill, to just "be" and think of nothing is inspired by my other half. I definitely do not have this ability. The other half has always insisted it is a perfectly normal male attribute. 
> 
> For the geography of Ennor, I generally rely on Karen Fonstad's Atlas of Middle-Earth :)


	23. Sweet Nothings

One night, as snow fell outside the windows, flurrying white against the dark diamonds of the window panes, Glorfindel unloaded an armful of things onto his bed—some of the contents of a beautiful and very ancient wood-and-iron chest he had pulled out from behind a drape near the entrance to his chamber.

“What is all this?” Maeglin asked, as she tied the silken sash of his night-robe about her slender waist. It was too long and trailed on the floor behind her. With her dark hair falling in a shining waterfall to her hips, and in the shimmering robe of light-silver—a colour she would never ordinarily have worn—she looked hauntingly reminiscent of her mother.

“Some things I have not looked at since I moved here from Lindon,” he said, sorting through the contents of a small golden casket. He was wearing only his breeches, for he seldom felt the cold, as though his hair that shone bright in the flames of the hearth, falling loose and unbraided over his shoulders, was enough to warm him. “Having had no need of them for five millennia, I think it unlikely I would miss them for the remainder of time in Arda. Since you are moving more and more of your things over here, I thought you would like a place to keep them.”

The chest was covered with intricate carvings… a king’s banquet, a summer carnival in the palace gardens, a fleet of ships in a harbour, elven knights in armour riding with banners unfurled, fair lords and ladies dancing in a great hall. Scenes of life in Forlindon in the days of Gil-galad. She ran her fingers appreciatively over the woodwork, then eyed the items strewn on the bed. Ornamental knives. Boxes and caskets of various shapes and sizes. Letters. Scrolls of poetry and music dedicated to him.

“You are going to throw these away?”

“Some of them.” He tossed a handful of papers from would-be paramours into the flames. “Keep anything you fancy, _melmenya._ I shall give the rest away to those in the household who might like them. _”_

She picked up a small box studded with sapphires and rubies. “This does not look elven in make. Whence did it come?”

“Númenórë. Most of these were gifts.”

“Interesting design…” She opened it and fell silent. He turned his head and saw a look on her face that made his heart sink.

“Who is this?” Her voice was ice and steel. She took out from the box a palm-sized portrait of an amply-endowed mortal beauty done in early Númenorean style. Golden fire sparked in the depths of her black eyes.

“Náremírë of Númenórë,” he said. “I met her briefly at Andúnië—” A brief stopover by the white elven ship on its way from Aman to Ennor.

“ _Hallacar’s whore?”_ A famed beauty and courtesan most notorious for forsaking the luxuries of Armenelos for the sheeplands of Emerië. There, she had warmed the bed of Tar-Ancalimë’s estranged and embittered husband for half a century.

“She was _not_ his—his—not at that time. _Wherever_ did you learn that ghastly word?”

“And _why_ does Hallacar’s whore inscribe on the back—in appallingly bad Quenya—‘ _Thankfulness, Golden Lover, for night unforgettable. Best kiss and touches, Immortal Beloved. Forever, your Flame’_?”

 _“What?”_ he sputtered, never having ever looked at the back of the portrait. “Valandur Lord of Andúnië invited us to stay at his villa. She was one of the dancers at the dinner he hosted for us. That was all. It was one evening! There was nothing between us!”

 _“Nothing!”_ she snapped scathingly, hurling the portrait at him. “Always _nothing!_ I could fill the thousand caves of Menegroth with your nothings!”

He was staring in consternation at the words scribbled on the portrait. “I never even noticed this before—I simply kept the box away. You have to believe me when I say nothing happened!”

_“Define ‘nothing’!”_

“After dinner, when most of the household had retired, she sought my company as I admired Valandur’s art collection and plied me with wine in the salon. We managed to converse, though I was not fluent in Adûnaic at that time, and she spoke little Quenya or Sindarin. She drank far too much and… threw up on me. I got her out onto the terrace for some fresh air. She shed some tears and asked to follow me to Endórë and I told her it was not possible and let her blow her nose on my sleeve, which she had not thrown up on. She ran from the terrace down to the shore, waded into the waves and… tried to remove her clothes. I—uh—did my best to stop her and she… tried to remove mine. Whereupon I picked her up, and carried her back to the villa. We were not a pretty sight by then. I escorted her back to her chamber and…”

As his voice trailed away, her eyes pierced him like daggers. “And?”

Indefatigably honest, he continued unwillingly, “She tried to get me into bed, but then she passed out. I could not leave her in her wet clothes. So I undressed her, tucked her into bed—laying her on her side in case she had anything else to throw up—and went back to my chamber for a bath and change of clothes. And that was all that transpired between us. Until she said farewell at the harbour and gave me the box.”

She saw from his eyes that he spoke true. But her imagination filled in all the details he had left unspoken. She glared suspiciously at the various items scattered on the bed. “And each of these treasures of yours has a similar story behind it?”

“Uhh… more or less.”

 _“Why?”_ She exploded. “Why have you kept these things all these years? Precious mementos? Trophies? _Why?”_

He flushed. “Is it not unmannerly and churlish to reject and throw away a gift? I would bring each back to my chamber, and give it no further thought. Sometimes, if a maidservant took a fancy to any trinket whilst cleaning my room in Forlond, I would give it her. Then war came. When I left Eregion and first arrived at Imladris with Elrond, I had naught with me but my sword, my knives, and the clothes on my back. Following Sauron’s first defeat, Lindir simply had the servants at Forlond toss all my personal effects into two chests and transport them here. I opened the chest with my clothes and weapons, but this other chest was shoved into that corner where it has remained for five millennia.”

Her eyes raked over the chest and its contents. The spoils of six hundred years in Forlindon. “So. Five millennia in Imladris. What store of love-tokens have you amassed in all that time?”

He looked at her for a heartbeat, then walked to the drape from behind which he had taken out the chest. He opened a door behind it. “ _A cálë,”_ he said softly, and a lamp beyond the door began to glow.

She stepped forward and looked into the small room beyond. Then looked at him.

“Go through it all if you wish,” he said. “And dispose of it all as pleases you.”

For a long moment she looked at the crates and chests full of letters and presents piled high to the ceiling. “They are yours,” she said at last. She turned her back on the room. “I will not touch them.”

The remaining papers from the chest fed the fire as he tossed them in with the portrait of fair Náremírë. As she watched them curl and blacken and fall to ashes, they crackled and whispered and taunted her with salacious details of encounters untold and the lusts and yearnings of fair ones unknown.

And all the nothings that had never happened.

 

 _Tuilë_ , a cool, bright morning after _Nost-na-Lothion_.

Wreaths of cherry and apple blossoms on their heads, dressed in white and the green of new leaves, the bride and the groom stood on the terrace before the house, heads bowed and eyes closed, their faces solemn as the bride’s aunt and Lord Elrond—standing in place of parents long gone west—declared the blessings of Manwë and Varda over their joined hands.

At long last… after a handfasting of ten _coranári_. All the Imladrim rejoiced to behold the first wedding in the valley in two and a half centuries.

As the rings of gold were slipped upon their forefingers, and the holy name of Eru Ilúvatar was invoked, Glorfindel was shocked to be suddenly wrenched by heartache.

The warrior had witnessed many hundreds of weddings in his lifetime, and up till that moment he had felt nothing but joy for Camaen and Thalanes.

His eyes searched the crowd for Maeglin, as hand-in-hand, the smith and the healer descended from the terrace to a rapturous chorus of song from the assembled Imladrim, and the air was filled with a shower of spring blossoms and petals.

Maeglin was standing next to Lindir in a cerulean blue dress—Thalanes having forbidden her to wear dark colours that day. Her eyes met Glorfindel’s across the garden.

Instead of smiling at her, the warrior looked away.

As the wedding feast resumed, Maeglin saw her beloved walk away towards a far meadow where Asfaloth and other elf horses were grazing in the warmth of the morning sun. She cautiously followed him from a distance and watched him feed Asfaloth with pieces of fruit from the banquet tables.

Walking up to Gilroch, her own dappled silver-grey steed, she stroked its head and muzzle, and blew gently into its nostrils in greeting. The two lovers were a stone’s throw away from each other.

 _“I am surprised you dared risk others seeing you here with me,”_ Glorfindel said in thought without turning his head.

She almost flinched at the quiet bitterness of his words. “ _I took care that none saw me. And I’ll not come closer than this.”_

_“Of course.”_

She felt a tightness in her throat. _“Please. Don’t be like this.”_

No words came in response. Just a wave of weariness and resentment.

 _“Damn it, what is wrong with you?”_ she asked. This was most unlike him, and feeling anxious and helpless, she was growing angry.

She caught sight of his face as he turned it to her briefly, and saw the wretchedness in it. Then suddenly, he strode right up to her and caught her in his arms.

_“Don’t! Someone might see—”_

“Let them see,” he said aloud. “I have tried. Tried to understand. I truly have. But it has been almost ten _coranári,_ and I still—cannot—comprehend— _why_ we doing this. It should have been _us,_ on that terrace, exchanging rings. But instead, here we are. Married. For ten _coranári_. Pretending we care naught for each other. Hoping none see us together. Tell me _why_. Please.”

In the silence that followed, her face was shut to him, the black eyes opaque.

“Do you love me?”

“Of course,” she said almost impatiently.

“Do you believe I love you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ashamed of us?”

“No!”

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes!” she snapped it out almost irritably.

“Then—why?”

Their elven ears heard laughter and voices approaching. She broke away from his grasp, and fled into the nearby grove of ashes and birches.

He did not follow her.

Asfaloth cantered to his elf’s side and nuzzled him gently. Glorfindel leaned his head against his horse, and gave vent to a heartfelt sigh. Asfaloth whinnied and nickered. Glorfindel gave a groan.

“Oh no. Please. Spare me the advice, I beg you, _mellon vuin._ My mare and your mares are not the same.”

The stallion nickered further and butted Glorfindel’s head with his. Glorfindel smiled wryly and gave a chuckle that ended in a sigh.

“I would that herding her around and asserting dominance were so simple, _mellon-nín._ When you know her better, you will understand. And no, a good mounting does _not_ solve everything.”

Unable to face the wedding feast for another hour or so, Glorfindel rode Asfaloth to the foothills. Staring out over the valley, he brooded.

The candour of his own nature could not begin to fathom the murky bog of fears and insecurities that kept Maeglin locked in her refusal to be open.

Was it some remnants of her identity as a _nér_ that she had not fully relinquished?

Was it self-doubt, that she was unworthy of love, despite his adoration of her?

Was it his history with countless of the fairest females of Arda, elven and mortal, in spite of his repeated assurances that she had never had—and would never have—a rival?

Was it the shadow of her father and her mother—memories of their tumultuous, dark relationship bequeathing a lingering fear… that love would never be enough, passion would never be enough… that she bore through their blood the seeds of doomed love, that for her all things well begun could only fail and come to ruin?

She herself did not know. She would either run, as she did today, or give only evasive answers that shed no light. And confronting her had always resulted in nothing but mutual wretchedness and frustration.

With a small sigh, as he looked over to the house and watched the bridal party in full swing, Glorfindel resigned himself. Riding back, he returned to the feast, and joined in the songs of blessing and celebration.

And from that day, to survive their hidden life, he turned it into play.

Some nights, he coaxed her into wandering the house or the valley with him, or cajoled her into sneaking down into the kitchen for a snack. Avoiding discovery then became a game in itself, for from spring to autumn there would be elves abroad in the hallways and the gardens, singing by the river and dancing in the woods. And with great skill, they always passed undetected. But there remained nights when she would betake herself to the smithy, and he would join the others in their nocturnal revels and play, lest his prolonged absence from their company arouse suspicion. Other nights they played chess or cards in their chambers, or sparred with weapons in the basement training room.

In this way, the seasons then the years flew past on swift wings.

All he could do was give her whatever time she might need. And pray that time was all she would need.

And till then, find joy in counting all his gain, and not lament his lack.

 

One rainy night, late in autumn, they sat by the fire in his chamber playing chess and drinking mulled wine.

“What are you thinking of, _melmenya?”_

She moved a black marble _maethor_. “Nothing.”

“Your nothing is humming like bees in my head. Tell me.”

“Very well. The ways of a man with a woman. Who gave _you_ your initiation in the arts of love when you turned forty-five? Turukáno would never have been the one to speak to you. So who did?”

He glanced at her briefly, sensing at once that the question was not innocently curious, though he could not have guessed at the complex labyrinth of suspicions and jealousies that underlay it.

His white _thoron_ captured one of her black _maethyr,_ and as he palmed the intricately-carved marble piece, he said lightly, “Ecthelion, of course.”

“What?” she said, unbelievingly. “Are you in earnest?”

He set down her black _maethor_ on the table next to two others, and her _ithron_. “Well, he was the closest I had to a father. Itarillë forced him to do it. A little earlier than customary, when I was thirty-six. After I had a run-in with Salgant’s twins which almost put me off women for life.”

“Northanis and Nornalë?” she said contemptuously. “Those lumps? What did they do?”

“I would rather not talk about it. Istuinor the librarian thankfully passed by and rescued me by throwing them out of the library. He then marched me to the princess and told her what happened. So Itarillë decided it was time for The Talk.”

“But Ecthelion is not even _married…_ or was not. Egalmoth or Penlod were family men and more suited to this, surely.”

“Itarillë probably trusted in Ecthelion’s sterling, upright character and virtuous nature. Which Egalmoth, alas, did not inspire after a bawdy song she very unfortunately overheard him and Galdor singing on Vána’s Day. And she deemed Penlod too stern and aloof to speak to a child about such sensitive matters.”

“So… what did Ecthelion say? _”_ A black _ernil_ moved forward on the board to protect her black _aran._

Glorfindel’s azure eyes were sparkling with amusement as he leaned his chin on his hand and looked at her. “Oh, he took me to a lonely beach some distance from Vinyamar after breakfast the next day. And delivered the most moving and elegantly-worded speech about the natural cycles of life in Arda, and the sanctity of the act of marriage to the Eldar. And how it is a form of worship unto Eru and divinely ordained, and how it should never be undertaken lightly, but only when there exists a deep and mutual love and respect, and after long and careful consideration.” He paused for effect. Unhurriedly, his strong, slender fingers moved a white _maethor_. “And then, he handed me a book.”

Maeglin gave him a look from narrowed eyes. “A… book.”

“A book.” His eyes twinkled. “The Vanyar put it into poetry, and the Teleri put it into song. But trust the Noldor to have… a book. _The Joyous Congress of the Connubial Bed_. So, whilst Ecthelion sat himself on a rock and stared at the sea and sky—”

This was not at all the talk that she imagined a father and son should have. Her own father had been gruff, no-nonsense and graphic, and his lecture, conducted over shots of firewater in the forge, had held no surprises. An observant and shrewd child, Maeglin had known the facts of life by then, and Eöl would have been ashamed of him had he not known.  

“Anyway,” Eöl had grunted, “that’s the easiest part of handling a woman.” And tossing back his firewater, he had banged the cup down on the table, and returned to the anvil.

Her black _ernil_ captured Glorfindel’s white _maethor._ And set it down next to three white _maethyr_ and his white _rîs._ “That sounds like Ecthelion,” she said wryly.

“Yes. So whilst he meditated on the clouds, I walked up and down the beach and obediently read the book. Once I had finished, he asked me if I had any questions—”

“It must not have been a very long book.”

“Quite a detailed and comprehensive manual, actually. Two hundred and fifty-eight pages, excluding the index. And when I said no, I was sufficiently enlightened, he looked immensely relieved. Told me to return it to the library.  Said that if he caught me trying to practice _anything_ I had just learned on _anyone_ while I was underaged, he would whip me. And if I stupidly and rashly got myself married to someone unsuitable once I came of age, and broke Itarillë’s heart—”

He froze and abruptly fell silent as their eyes met.

Neither of them had broached the subject about how Idril or Ecthelion might react to their marriage. Rash and stupid would mostly certainly be the verdict of both on the manner of their joining. And unsuitable would probably describe the entire Gondolindrin population’s opinion of their choice of mate.

Neither of them wanted to go there at the moment.

“So,” said Maeglin coolly, “was this enlightening book lost in the move to Gondolin?”

“Oh no. It was there in the Religion and Spirituality section of the library. It was, of course, never part of the educational syllabus Quendingoldo designed for you.”

He moved his _ithron_.

Her obsidian eyes were fixed on the chess board in disbelief.

He smiled luminously in triumph.

“And have you shown me everything of what you learned from that wondrous book?” she said at last.

He reflected carefully. “No… Not everything, now I think of it.”

She looked up. “Well, what are you waiting for, my tutor?”

Their eyes met and held over the chess pieces.

He smiled. “I am waiting for your next move. I am going to win this game, my prince.”

“I know.” Slowly, teasingly, she loosened the laces of her bodice, and smirked.

His eyebrow lifted slightly. “You don’t play fair, my prince.”

“I play to win.”

“Since it means so much to you…” He moved his _ithron_  to another part of the board.

_Stalemate._

Annoyance flickered in her eyes. “Neither of us winning is not satisfying. You giving up your win is worse, you patronizing son of a saint. Very well then, you win—fair and square.”

He smiled as he swept the marble pieces off the board. “Let us play something where no one loses.” They rose to their feet. “I warn you some of those moves looked fairly acrobatic.”

“Interesting.”

“I did not think they would please you,” he said as they moved around the table.

“Let us find out.”

So picking her up, he tossed her onto the connubial bed, and initiated a joyous session of congress.

 

Glorfindel woke one spring morning to Maeglin in a foul mood. A miasma of anger and misery surged heavy over his _fëa_ like churning vats of molten lead or slabs of granite grinding against each other.

What was wrong now? As sleep cleared from his eyes, he saw he was alone in her bed. Sending out feelers with his mind, he found her once more shut up in the bath chamber. She had been cranky last night, and snapped at him, although he could not think of anything he might have done to upset her.

He sat up, and saw evidence on the bedsheet that should have explained it all, but caused him an initial flash of panic and worry.

Oh… Of course.

How had they not seen that coming?

The answer, of course, was that neither of them, as _ellyn_ in their first lives, would have needed to consider this at all. And in this life, Maeglin had not had any _naneth_ to give her the customary mother-daughter talk between the ages of thirty and forty.

“ _Melmenya,”_ he said gently, as he rapped the bath-chamber door. “Are you well?”

“Go away.”

“This is perfectly natural—”

“Natural. What in bloody Arda is _natural_ about this? What is _natural_ about being turned into a sodding female by the sodding Valar and having to undergo this sodding mess of orc- _muk?”_

Given that elven menarche generally occurred around the age of forty for most _ellith_ and that the cycle for most varied between seventeen to twenty-six _coranári,_ he was tempted to suggest to her that the Valar had been merciful in arranging for her rebirth in a body that had probably just completed menarche and granting her twenty-four _coranári_ of reprieve to settle into her new body.

So intense was her seething resentment at the moment, however, that he wisely decided against it. Nor would he dream of breathing a word about children to her, though the thought now occurred to him for the first time. Not that it was likely, in this time of fading in Ennor.

Through the door, he heard the sound of a knife tearing through cloth. “Wait! You don’t have to cut up your shirt! Let me call Thalanes.”

“ _No!_ Not a word to anyone.”

“Can I do anything to help? How about herbal tea? Itarillë liked a herbal tea infusion with ginger and _piuccar_ during this time.”

“Sod off.”

“Massage can help.”

“Just shut up. You cannot help. You cannot say anything that would help. I hate this. I hate Námo. And right this moment I sodding hate you for being a sodding _nér_ who will never sodding have to deal with this so just leave me alone.”

So, standing helplessly outside the door, he shut up. Sent her his love through the door as best as he could, in warm, comforting waves... a bodiless hug _fëa_ to _fëa._

And though she never told him so, that helped.

 

Humming a new melody that was unfolding in his head like a blossoming rose, Lindir picked it out on the strings of his lute as he strolled through the gardens, and almost stepped on the small pouch lying on the path.

“What have we here?” said the minstrel, slinging his lute on his back and stooping to pick it up. Dark-blue velvet with a drawstring of gold ribbon, it was light as a feather. For a moment he thought it might be empty.

It was almost dinner time, and as Lindir glanced up and down the garden path, he saw not a soul. The stables and smithy lay around the bend in one direction, the garden maze in the other.

His long fingers untied the ribbon, and his eyes widened as a small ring of braided hair fell out of the pouch upon his palm and glowed there with a golden luminescence that was unmistakable.

Which admirer of the balrog slayer had been able to steal a priceless lock of that golden hair? And how? Had Glorfindel noticed the shearing of his treasured tresses? It would be a tale worth the telling in itself, thought Lindir with a grin—a feat of daring and cunning worthy of a song in epic mode.

He returned the beautiful bright thing to the pouch and retied the ribbon.

Now, how might he track down that audacious maid to hear the tale?

Just then, through the rose and jasmine bushes that lined the path, he espied Maeglin in the distance, coming from the smithy, attired in her work clothes. One fleeting glimpse of her face in the twilight gave him a shock, and pure instinct told him the truth. He climbed swiftly up a nearby tree and dropped the pouch back onto the path.

Hidden in thick summer foliage, he watched her slowly make her way along the path, a frown on her fair brow and her mouth set in a stern line. Her sharp black eyes carefully swept the stone slabs and the grass and flowers growing along the verge, and also looked about to check that she was alone.

Something in her face made Lindir pray, _Please Eru, let her not look up._ He was fond of the foundling maiden but the dark, taciturn streak in her nature intimidated him. He was not foolish enough to ask for any tales of hair exploits from that grim, unsmiling face.

The moment she espied the pouch on the path ahead of her, she quickly glanced about to ascertain there were no watching eyes, then swiftly strode to it and retrieved it. He could not see her face. She took out the ring of golden hair, and cradled it gently in her palm as though it were a living thing, then carefully slipped it back into the pouch and tucked the pouch as deeply into her breech pocket as she could.

As she disappeared back down the path towards the smithy, Lindir found that he had been holding his breath. Astonished and intrigued, he did not know what to think.

Maeglin was well-noted to be the one _elleth_ in the valley coolly contemptuous of the charms of the balrog slayer. Nor could Lindir recall Glorfindel ever showing more than the most proper and detached courtesy towards her.

Erestor, Lindir thought with a smirk, would be quite disappointed to learn that the one bulwark of female good sense in the valley—as the councillor esteemed it—had capitulated.

Slipping down from his perch, the minstrel went in search of the councillor.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

A cálë (Q) – light/illuminate (imperative)

Mellon vuin (S) – dear friend (in FOTR Glorfindel speaks Sindarin to Asfaloth. I figure that somewhere in the Second Age after leaving Aman, they would have begun to do so.)

Piuccar (Q) – blackberries

Ithron (S) – wizard (I previously used 'Curunír', but reader Aylatha on FF.net pointed out the confusion with Saruman/Curumo's Sindarin name. So 'Ithron' it now is.)

Thoron (S) - eagle

Ernil (S) - prince

Rîs (S) – queen

As always, I welcome expert feedback on elvish.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rules of elvish chess are not the same as ours. I’ve not thought through the rules in any detail and frankly I think it’s beyond me.  
> 2\. Although "heca!" has essentially the same meaning as “sod off”, I found it just did not have the force to convey Maeglin’s foul mood. Apologies to anyone whose delicate sensibilities were offended, or who feels the descent into contemporary slang has no place in a Tolkien fanfic.  
> 3\. Anyone sensitive enough to be offended by #2, might also be offended by mention of elven fertility cycles. So very sorry.  
> 4\. Some readers might be thinking - elves have control over their fertility and hence should have control over the whole cycle as well, shouldn't they? That's one of my departures from LACE! elflings in this fic are not borne at the will of the parents, but chance, or you could say, Eru's will....  
>  


	24. Secret Rings

Erestor was indeed disappointed.

“That silly girl,” said Erestor, as he and Lindir made their way down the great, sweeping central staircase towards the dining hall. “I thought her more intelligent than that. But at least she is not the sort to swoon and giggle over that dolt as other maids do.”

“You are right that she is different—a shy and reserved creature. I once talked to her two hours, and found at the end of it that I had told her much of my own thoughts and more of myself than I intended—and learned but little of her. I trust her. She can keep a confidence.”

Consummate diplomat and negotiator that he was, Erestor would never have fallen into that trap with Maeglin. She was cleverer than Lindir realized, and Erestor admired her guardedness more than he suspected it. He frowned slightly. “How could the outcome be anything but tragic? She is deep, that one, and stern of spirit. I do not believe her heart, once set upon a thing, would be easily turned.”

They spoke in low voices, and went out onto the wide verandah running down the length of the dining hall to escape being overheard. Lindir was beginning to be anxious. “Do you fear she would pine or fade for him?”

“She does not strike me as the kind to fade. More apt to brood, and grow withdrawn and grim.” Erestor saw with annoyance the object of Lómiel’s affection in the distance, enjoying the last hours of summer sunlight with Emlindir in the garden, and laughing and chatting with the captain merrily. “You say she was most secret about it. She fears any knowing, then. I wonder still how she came by his hair.”

There had been a time in the valley when admirers had fought over the cuttings of that glorious hair from Glorfindel’s half-yearly trim. The chambermaids clearing the basket of litter in his room were pestered for the shining strands ere they were mixed into the compost heap with the rest of the household’s refuse. The more enterprising maids had even bartered them for a small profit. Once Glorfindel had realized this was happening, it had so discomfited him that he no longer tossed the trimmed-off ends into the basket. He would take them with him on a ride, and quietly cast them into the Bruinen.

“I have hardly noted her speaking with Glorfindel or even venturing nigh him,” Erestor said.

“Nor I. But their chambers are nigh each other in the east wing.”

“Indeed. There could be exchanges betwixt them none are privy to.”

“Elbereth… could she have stolen a lock as he slept?”

“It would take a lock thick as this finger, and at least as long, to weave a ring such as you saw. He would of a certainty have noted its loss and fussed over it. Unless...”

The councillor and the minstrel looked at each other.

“She asked for the lock and he gave it her?” gasped Lindir.

“Hard to imagine that she would ask, or he would give.”

From the verandah, they saw the black-haired smith walk past the warriors on her way back to the house. Emlindir was not facing the path and saw her not. Glorfindel and Maeglin did not so much as glance at each other.

“She treasures a ring of his hair, but staunchly ignores him?” wondered Lindir.

“She is no fool, and proud to boot,” said Erestor. “Whatever her affections are, she has been here thirty-eight years now and knows well how hopeless a cause it is to love him. She would not make a spectacle of herself mooning over him like other maids.”

Lindir looked thoughtful. “So… she has affection for Glorfindel, which given her nature, would be strong and deeply felt, and which given his nature, he would never return. You believe she will not be turned from it, and will not act upon it… As a friend, is there aught I could do? _”_

“See if she might take you into her confidence. A heartache shared is a heartache halved,” said Erestor, as they turned to enter the dining hall. “But keep that mouth of yours buttoned tight! Little birds here carry news on swift wings through the treetops and corridors. One loose word, and you might find your lute smashed to smithereens by a smith’s hammer!”

 

Glorfindel was leaving the stables with Asfaloth when he heard Lindir reach the end of a song as he sat outside the smithy under the apple trees. Yet another plaintive love ballad of unrequited love. The minstrel had been doing this for three days now, and the balrog slayer was growing perturbed.

“Sad songs for summer, _mellon-nín,”_ the warrior heard his beloved say, and he halted in his tracks. It would seem that Maeglin, intrigued, had emerged from the smithy. With Hatheldir to assist her and Camaen, she had more leisure now. Nor had she been as fiercely driven in her craft since her return from their travels years before. He could imagine her, probably still in her leather apron, seating herself by Lindir on the bench.

Glorfindel saw Asfaloth eyeing him and lifted his finger to his lips. Horse and elf lingered near the stable doors and Glorfindel stroked the white mane as they both listened.

“Oh, I was but thinking of the plight of a friend of mine,” the minstrel said, plucking a plaintive melody on his lute strings. “And wondering how I might help him.”

“Ah.”

“He loves one from afar who knows not of his love… and the one he loves is well-known to have a heart untouchable by love. He has nursed this secret long, and believes it hopeless. I have been pondering how best to counsel him.”

Seeing Glorfindel frown, Asfaloth gave him a gentle nudge with his head.

Maeglin said nothing in reply. Glorfindel could imagine her impassive face as she gazed over the meadow through the apple trees.

“Should he tell her his love?” Lindir was saying.

“And invite scorn and rejection?” Maeglin said, recalling an autumn night in Gondolin. “Is there aught more terrible to the pride of an _ellon?”_

“Should he seek to deny this love then? And turn his heart to others?”

“If love be true, would a true heart turn ere the sun rises in the west?”

“How well you understand my friend. As he is proud, I dare not counsel him to declare his love. As he is steadfast, I dare not counsel him to love another. Have you, too, known the ache of love? And you, but a bud not long full-blossomed?”

“I have heard the songs and the tales. History is instructive. _You_ certainly sing sad love songs with much feeling, Lindir. I hope your friend’s tale has not been yours.”

Lindir laughed. “I have tales to tell and many more such songs to sing, if you have any wish to listen.”

“I shall listen to your songs from the workroom. My work summons me.”

“Very well. _Abedithon le…”_

And as Lindir took to haunting the bench beneath the apple trees daily for a few hours to sing sad love songs, and to sitting next to Maeglin each night at dinner, a certain balrog slayer’s thoughts became rather dark, and the minstrel’s lute was in far more danger of being smashed than he realized.              

 

The letters from Lothlórien arrived a month after Tarnin Austa, in the hour after dinner.

After settling the messenger in one of the guest suites, Glorfindel went in search of Elrond. The Lord of Imladris was not in his study, but his friend of five millennia guessed where to find him.

Stars were lighting in a sky of deep twilight blue as Glorfindel climbed up to the Star Dome. Elrond stood at one of the large windows of the round room, hands behind his back, gazing out across the valley at the Evenstar glittering bright above the encircling mountaintops. Glorfindel climbed up onto the ledge of the window next to his lord’s, and perched there quietly.

“I used to bring the children up here to learn about the stars.”

“Arwen would sit on your lap,” said Glorfindel. “And point at Eärendil’s Star, and say, ‘ _Daeradar’.”_

After a stretch of silence, Elrond said, “I knew this day would come. Yet I had prayed it would not.”

Glorfindel said nothing, but waited.

Elrond gave a heartfelt sigh. “I felt compassion for Estel, when I first spoke to him twenty-nine _coranári_ ago. How could he but love her? He was but a boy, in the first glow of manhood and the glory of his inheritance. In her, he saw a loveliness to bring strong warriors to their knees and spur the craven to great deeds, to inspire stones to sing symphonies and make poets fall mute.”

He leaned forward and rested his arms on the window ledge before him, and gazed bleakly at the father he could scarcely remember, shining brilliantly in the sky.

“And what was he to her? A boy she had known with knobbly, skinned knees and ink on his nose. She had known his great-grandfather in diapers, and his grandfather as a pimpled youth. Nothing should have come of it. Nothing!” He sighed again. Pulling out two letters from his robe, he perused them once more by starlight.

“Elrond,” said Glorfindel gently, “We have followed his battles from afar, and heard Mithrandir’s recount of his deeds. Young as he is, already we can see it: he is a captain a young soldier would die for. Men will look at him and say, ‘This is my lord, and I would follow him to the ends of the earth.’ He is the man we made him. The best of a long and noble line.”

“I am proud of him, believe me,” replied Elrond quietly. “‘Tis a fair and noble letter he has writ me. He hastens now to Gondor to lead its forces against Umbar, and begs to speak with me once he is released, and able to come north to Imladris. I almost would that it were an _adan_ whose suit I could deny.  One less worthy. One I could urge her to turn away. One I loved less.” He turned to look at his gloriously beautiful friend, luminous in the starlight as his golden-hair was lifted by a gentle breeze. “She was smitten with you, once upon a time. Did you know? I have foolishly this past hour wondered what might have been had you only seen it and returned her love.”

For a moment, Glorfindel almost lost his perfect balance and toppled off the window ledge. He lightly jumped back into the tower room. “Elrond!”

“Celebrían dreamed of it. She loved you as a brother and would have loved you even more as a law-son.”

“Elrond! That would have been unthinkable!”

“I understand… Arwen is as a daughter to you.”

It was more than that, of course, but it was not the time to speak of their tangled web of kinship. It had flashed through his mind as Elrond spoke… he was Arwen’s first cousin once removed through his father Finrod… her second cousin through his mother Rîlel… he was furthermore the second cousin of Elrond’s mother… and the second cousin of Elrond’s paternal grandmother…

Glorfindel had told none but Maeglin of his lineage, and would keep it secret till he had met and spoken with his father. One day in Aman, he and Elrond would sit down, and talk and laugh at leisure over a flagon of wine. For now, all that mattered was Elrond’s sense of impending loss.

Losses. Elrond had imagined, on the day that Elros Tar-Minyatur had sailed to Elenna, that nothing could ever hurt as much again. He would see his Celebrían again one day, and that moment drew closer with each passing hour. But on the day his twin and other half had chosen to be mortal, the _peredhel_ had felt the full weight of what _forever_ meant. From the moment he had held his own children in his arms, he had lived in both joy and fear, knowing the choice that lay before them. And he had prayed. That he would not need to say farewell forever again.

Elladan and Elrohir were away north on an orc-hunt at this time… which was why Glorfindel now said gently, “If it is your wish, I shall depart for Lothlórien to escort her home.”

“Thank you,” Elrond said quietly.

So Glorfindel rode south to bring Arwen back to Imladris. There, with her father, and her brothers, she would remain till the fate of Estel and the Dúnedain was known… glory or oblivion, restoration or ruin.

Two ages ago, King Elu Thingol had named a bride-price for his daughter’s hand, and set in motion a quest that had breached the stronghold of Angband, wrested a jewel from the Iron Crown, and ended in the death of the two lovers. Elrond’s ancestor had lost that which he most sought to withhold, and the first line of _peredhil_ in Arda had come into being.

Elrond, too, would set a bride-price for his daughter’s hand. _Forgive me, my children._

Should the descendant of Elros overcome the Shadow, Middle Earth would be free, and the _adan_ would win a queen.

Should he be defeated, the Eldar would abandon these lands to darkness and horror. They would sail west, and all Elrond’s labours for five thousand years would have come to naught, ending in futility and failure.

But he would still have his daughter.

 

It was a dark and moonless night over Lothlórien. Tired from a long journey on which he and Asfaloth had seldom stopped to rest, Glorfindel yawned as he climbed the stairs to his flet.

Galadriel and Celeborn were still deep in talk with their granddaughter, and knowing they would not see her for a long season, they would probably be up all night.

Closing his eyes as he stretched out on his pallet, Glorfindel reached out to Maeglin. He did not know if this was a rare gift of the Valar, or an inherited mind-gift from his father’s blood, but even across the distance between them, he could feel her, awake and well, beyond the mountains to the northwest. No words. Just the comfort of a light touching of minds. Whenever he had had been away for days beyond the borders hunting down orcs or wargs, he had reached out in this way to reassure her nightly. Knowing their bond could still be felt across the leagues had assuaged her anxiety at his departure for Lothlórien.

Glorfindel drifted into Irmo’s realm, and was having a very pleasant dream about Maeglin when he suddenly heard a silken voice in his ear saying, “Why, Glorfindel… Ready for me at last?”

As he awakened, he saw Thranduil’s sister, in a tiny white slip, kneeling astride him on his bed and smiling alluringly at him.

In his sleepy, half-dreaming state, he wondered in confusion if he was in the Mirkwood and how he had forgotten to lock his door. And how had he been sleeping so soundly that she had managed to position herself on top of him?

At least she was wearing something this time.

She laughed melodiously. “Surprised to see me, _meleth-nín?_ I just arrived. Imagine my delight when I saw Asfaloth, and learned you were here. How long has it been? Three hundred years, or more?”

Arwen’s cousin Teliaris Oropheriel was a tall, willowy beauty who resembled both her brothers in different ways. She had her younger brother’s pale silver-gold hair and her elder brother’s playfulness, and both of her brothers’ azure-blue eyes.

Both Thranduil and Teliaris had inherited Oropher’s pride and stubbornness, and had adored him. After Dagorlad, grief had sundered rather than bonded them, and Thranduil had been unable to restrain his sister as his father had before him. The duties and burdens of the throne were her little brother’s to bear. Embracing her freedom with feckless abandon, Teliaris immersed herself in the Silvan culture of Eryn Lasgalen, and become a wanderer and a hunter of the woods who returned but rarely to the Halls of the Woodland King. At this moment, she was a predatory cat, and Glorfindel the prey she had pinned down.

 “Teliaris,” the golden-haired warrior groaned. “Please. You _have_ to stop doing this. If your brother ever hears of it, he will kill me.”

“Why do you always say that? Silly creature. Tonight, Thranduil is over a hundred leagues away and need never know. In fact, why should Thranduil even care? What I do is none of his business. Besides, how could my baby brother succeed in killing the greatest warrior of the _edhil?_ ”

Glorfindel knew family honour mattered as much to Thranduil as it had to Oropher his father. He had the briefest vision of himself fighting the armies of Mirkwood and unleashing the fourth kinslaying because he had sullied the honour of the Woodland King’s sister, for he knew well Teliaris had no thought of marriage in doing this.

The vision evaporated quickly. Of course, he would never lift his sword against kin. He would simply get thrown into Mirkwood’s dungeon, and drawn and quartered by Thranduil. And castrated by him before that.

“What are you doing in Lothlórien?”

“Visiting my kin, of course. I thought it would be good to, once a millennium.”

“Your great-uncle and Lady Galadriel are in the next mallorn. You know exactly what they would have to say about this.”

Her azure eyes flickered, for she was in some awe of the Lord Celeborn and frankly intimidated by Lady Galadriel. “Well… if I am to be thrown out of the golden woods for misbehaviour, let me be thrown out happy.” And kneeling on all fours over him, she slipped a knowing hand under his blanket.

With an agility and speed that never failed to impress her, he was out of bed with his blanket wrapped around his waist. “Teliaris, please, just leave.” He snatched up his breeches and began to put them on under his blanket. She pounced on him and caught him off balance just as he was putting one leg in. They tumbled onto the floor with her on top.

“How tense you are, _meleth-nín,”_ she purred in his ear as she bit it, and ran strong fingers through his gloriously radiant golden tresses and down his back. “Let me help you relax.”

With a weary sigh, he rolled her off before she could try to remove his blanket, got to his feet and quickly finished putting on his leggings before she could make her next move. Taking her by the arm as firmly yet as gently as he could, he propelled her towards the narrow stairs of the flet, his other hand gathering up her clothes and belongings as they went. She pouted.

“May I not just sleep next to you in your bed as before? No flet has been prepared for me.”

“Forgive me, Teliaris, I do not think that a good idea.” The last time she had sworn she only wanted to cuddle had not ended well. “But I am sure Haldir will be happy to oblige.” The dashing Silvan marchwarden of Lothlórien had carried a torch for Oropher’s daughter since the Last Alliance.

The balrog slayer adroitly set the beguiling beauty upon the steps, bundled her clothes, her bow, her quiver and other effects into her arms, and gave her a gentle push. “Please excuse me if I do not escort you, _híril-nín._ Down the stairs, third mallorn to the left, fifth flet from the base. _No vaer i dhû.”_

And he pulled the woven screens of his flet shut. No door and no lock, but she would be foolish to try to return after that. He wished Haldir joy of her.

That was probably the least chivalrous he had ever been to any _elleth_. Maeglin must be rubbing off on him, he thought ruefully.

It was only as he lay down on his pallet again that the realization finally hit his sleep-addled brain and brought a wave of nausea.

Teliaris Oropheriel was his sister.

 

Elrond caught sight of Maeglin’s face in one of her unguarded moments. Rare as they were, these moments now occurred far more than in Gondolin, when the prince had been perpetually watchful and wary of his surroundings.

“Does that child look rather morose to you?” Elrond asked Erestor, as Maeglin left the Hall of Fire while Lindir warbled the Lay of Nimrodel.

And despite all his exhortations to Lindir to be tight-lipped, Erestor leaned very close and murmured into his lord’s ear, “Methinks she misses absent friends.”

Elrond sat taller in his great chair and raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“The question, of course, is… which friend?” Erestor could not help but smirk a trifle smugly.

“You mean…one of my sons?” She had been in their company often enough.

“One wishes her taste was so discerning. It has come to light that she has, like many smiths, a penchant for… precious metal of a gaudy hue.”

His lordship’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Aahh...Interesting.” Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

It was not the response Erestor had expected. “Interesting, _hîr-nín?_ The child is to be pitied. She has cast her heart where there can be no hope. And, if I judge rightly, such matters go deep with her. Frighteningly deep. Of age she may be, but she is naïve, and lacks the wise counsel of parents.”

Elrond took a leisurely sip of wine and set down his goblet on the tray at his elbow. “Are you offering to advise the child out of your vast store of wisdom, Erestor?”

“Oh, no, no,” Erestor said hurriedly. “I have, after all, no experience of _parenthood_.”

“That is well. I do not think this young lady would take kindly to any meddling in the matters of her heart.”

“She most certainly would not.”

They listened as fair Nimrodel was lost forever, and her lover Amroth, waiting in vain, cast himself despairingly into the churning sea.

As the last notes of the lute fell silent, Elrond raised a lordly hand and called to the minstel, “Sing us something cheerful, Lindir.” Then, leaning close to his adviser he said quietly, “Our young lady’s love may not be as hopeless as you believe.”

The councillor’s face was a study in astonishment and disbelief. An eyebrow shot up sharply. “ _Hîr-nín?”_

It was Elrond’s turn to look smug.

 

It was a crisp, cool autumn day, and the branches of the apple orchard were bowed with the weight of rosy fruit.

Hearing Lindir’s lute, Maeglin looked up from the sword she had just finished sharpening. “So, a happier tune today. How does your friend?”

“The same, I believe. But there has been a new discovery that may change that,” said Lindir as he stood outside her window.

“Oh?” She lightly wiped the blade with an oiled cloth before returning it to its scabbard.

“It is possible that his beloved may not be as cold to him as he believed.”

“Good.” She came out of the smithy, and sat on the bench, and tilted her face to catch the warmth of the gentle autumn sun.

“But she is as shy and secret as he. It may be that both are holding aloof and loving from afar.” He looked meaningfully at her.

“How very ironic. It is worthy of a song,” she said, picking up one of the crisp, red apples that had fallen to the earth, and polishing it on her tunic.

“It is indeed!” Lindir’s grey eyes twinkled as he strummed his lute, and as he stood before her, he struck a dramatic lovelorn pose and burst into a mock-tragic ditty.

 _“Oh! my heart is lost to a maiden fey,_  
_So cold and fair, like frost in May,_  
_As far above me as the stars so high._  
_Should she scorn my love, I am like to die!”_

Maeglin chuckled as she bit into the apple.

 _“My love I’ll tell to the mountains tall,_  
_My love I’ll sigh to the leaves that fall,_  
_My love I’ll sing to the stars that shine,_  
_Till the day I dare woo her to be mine…”_

Lindir faltered and the lute abruptly fell silent.

Glorfindel, cloaked and in armour still dusty from the road, was leaning against a tree near them, tossing and catching an apple casually with one hand. His violet eyes were gazing at Lindir with a dangerous glint that unnerved the bard.

“Why, Glorfindel, _mae g’ovannen!”_ said Lindir. “You are back!”

“ _Mae le’ovannen, Hîr Glorfindel,”_ said Maeglin coolly. “Welcome home.”

“Well met, Maiden Lómiel, Lindir,” said Glorfindel courteously, his face pleasant. “An entertaining song. Pray continue.” His eyes resting still on Lindir, the warrior’s bare fingers lightly wrapped around the apple and crushed it effortlessly to a pulp.

Lindir avoided Glorfindel for the next month and did not darken the bench outside the smithy for the rest of the year.

 

“No.” Maeglin’s eyes narrowed as she set down the cloth she was using to polish and oil his armour, which she had cleaned as he had his bath. “And I do not appreciate your attempts to change what I choose to wear.”

“ _Melmenya_ , you would look utterly lovely in this. You know it.” His hair was still damp and unbraided from his bath, and he had pulled on a clean pair of leggings.

“I would look like my _mother._ And did you not think of the murmurs it would cause, your obtaining a dress for an _elleth?_ All the valley will be abuzz by tomorrow morn. If they are not already so.”

“I did not go to the tailor here. I asked Lady Galadriel to procure it for me, in Lothlórien. She knew, the moment she laid eyes on me, that we were wed. You know there is no hiding these things from her.”

Maeglin looked at him even more sharply. “How much does she know?”

“No more than that I am bonded, which pleased her. She sensed my reticence to speak of you, and she did not pry. But it afforded an opportunity—I had long wanted to get you something, but here my hands are tied. Look—is the needlework of the Galadhrim not very fine?”

It shimmered as he held it up for her to see: white silk edged with white lace, the full skirts and long, flowing sleeves covered with subtle, elegant embroidery of silver-grey leaves and grey-blue flowers.

“A trifle too embellished. But yes, the needlework is very fine.” A darker shadow crossed her face. “But why _white?_ Was that your choice, or hers?”

“Mine. I thought it would be nice to vary your clothes from dark or deep colours, _vesseya.”_

“What were you thinking of? Do you _desire_ that I look like my _mother?_ Did _my mother_ and you _ever_ …?”

And as her fists clenched and her face darkened further, for one wild moment Glorfindel did not know if he was facing a jealous _elleth_ or an _ellon_ up in arms over his _Amil’s_ honour.

“No!” exclaimed Glorfindel in indignation, lowering the dress. “ _I_ like white. I have _always_ liked white. That is all! How could you _ever_ think that of your mother? Or me? She was my king’s sister, and my princess.”

From the flush on Maeglin’s cheeks, she was probably reliving some rather vivid memories of growing up with Aredhel and Eöl as parents. Glorfindel smiled wryly. “If anything, _melmenya_ , you should know that I was never your mother’s type. Nor she mine.”

“For that matter, I have doubts if my father was her type.”

“Oh, he must have been, from what you told me.”

“Because they could not keep their hands off each other? You know well there is more to a marriage than that. When they were not coupling, they were sniping at each other continually. They made each other miserable, and violent, and insane.”

“She had fervent admirers aplenty in Nevrast and Gondolin, and she scorned them all as silly boys. She went to Eöl’s bed more than willingly. No denying they had severe issues, but he was still her One.”

She was still eyeing him dubiously. “Do I remind you of her?”

“You did when I first saw you, all wrapped in an infirmary gown in the healing hall with your hair falling over your face. But from the moment I first looked into your eyes, I could see only… you.”

“I thought that you were blinded by the lack of something else.”

“That too. I am only male. You should know what that is like. Now. Are you going to try on this dress?”

She smiled slowly, a wicked glint in her eyes. “If you want me in it, you are going to have to put me in it.”

He smiled back, his eyes glinting as well. “As it pleases you, my prince.”

The chase went over the bed and around the bed, and through the wardrobe area, and around and over the half-unpacked saddlebags, and the pieces of armour being polished, and the table where they played chess, and the couch where they cuddled before the hearth. When he decided it was enough, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed, and they were both chuckling as he began to divest her of her raiment and she pummelled him.

“Careful with the buttons! I happen to like this tunic!”

“It would help if you didn’t squirm so, my little mole.”

“ _Ai!_ _A pusta!_ That tickles!”

“ _That_ tickled? How about _this?”_ He blew a long raspberry into her bare navel and she burst into a peal of irrepressible laughter.

A loud knock on the door sounded.

They froze and stared at each other. Over the past twenty-nine years they had been disturbed whilst together in their chambers only seven times. Thrice, it had been a call to arms for the Commander in the middle of the night. Twice, it had been Elrond seeking to confer with Glorfindel on some matter of gravity. Another two times, it had been Thalanes at Maeglin’s door inviting her to partake in some revelry. It had not happened in the past fourteen years, and they had grown complacent.

In a second they were both off the bed, and in another three seconds he had bundled her into the small room behind the drape with the dress and her clothes.

Slightly dishevelled and hurriedly pulling on a tunic, Glorfindel opened the door.

Elladan and Elrohir stood in the corridor, smiling rather enigmatically, eyes twinkling.

“We rescued a caravan of traders from wargs, and so grateful were they that they gave us five of these, _mellon-nín.”_ Elrohir brandished a ceramic and cork-stoppered flagon at the balrog slayer. “The most delightful little vintage!”

“Thranduil would part with a barrel of his Dorwinion for a taste of this,” said Elladan, who was holding three empty goblets. “Welcome home!”

Glorfindel managed a laugh as he combed his hair with his fingers. “A moment. Allow me to find my belt and boots and I will join you—”

“Oh no, no—you have your unpacking to do and your armour to polish.” “We will ply you with wine as you do both.” And with the nonchalance and over-familiarity of almost three thousand years, the twins slipped past him and sauntered over to his couch and the table. Much as they had barged in as elflings to bounce on his bed and climb the bedposts.

As Elladan poured out the wine, Elrohir picked up a book peeking out from under the bed.

 _“Advances in the Heat Treatment of Non-Ferrous Metals?”_ the younger twin read out. He looked up from the title page to Glorfindel with raised eyebrows.

As Glorfindel disliked lying and was terrible at it, he chose to avoid Elrohir’s gaze. His foot conveniently knocked over one of his saddle-bags, and he became engrossed in picking up a cooking pan, leaves of lembas, drying linen, and vials of elven toiletries from the floor.

On the other side of the wall, Maeglin had murmured softly, as Glorfindel quietly and quickly closed the door behind her, _“A calë.”_

By the golden glow of a wall-lamp shaped like a lily, she saw a small, windowless room six _rangar_ wide and eight _rangar_ long.

She had tried for twenty-four years not to think of this room, had not once looked in it again, had done her best to ignore the door behind the drape, and all that she thought lay behind it.

The walls were covered with tapestries. Gondolin. Vinyamar. Tirion in the Calacirya. Five carved-wood chests lined the wall to the left. An elegant black-walnut cabinet inlaid with pearl stood against the far wall.

The mountains of crates full of the love-gifts of five thousand years were gone.

She bit her lip. He had told her, twenty-four years ago, _Go through it all if you wish…_

With that permission in mind, she began to open the chests and the doors and drawers of the cabinet, hearing, as she did, laughter and familiar voices from the other side of the door.

Three chests were empty. One contained an assortment of pieces of armour, helmets, vambraces. The last held spare cloaks and blankets and travel packs. She recognized these as things that he had cleared out from his wardrobe to make space for her clothes and belongings in the main bedchamber over the years.

In the walnut cabinet were a variety of beautiful boxes and caskets and bags full of jewels and jewellery, sorted into gold, silver, gems and semi-precious stones. There were drawers full of offerings from the elflings of the valley… childish drawings of balrogs and golden-haired warriors and flowers, and little notes and letters scribbled in shaky Tengwar. She did not recognize all the names, but she saw a few from Elladan and Elrohir, Arwen, Estel, and even one from Camaen. There was not a love letter or lovesick song or poem or inscribed portrait in sight.

In one drawer she found the wooden carvings of Asfaloth and an eagle they had made many Midsummers ago.

Maeglin closed the drawers and sat down on the lid of a chest. And smiled.

After an hour or less, the flagon was empty. Glorfindel pleaded tiredness from his travels, and the need to rest before dinner. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged a look, and took their leave with what looked like knowing smiles.

 _“They have left, vesseya.”_ He sent the thought to her even as he made his way to open the door of the side room.

What he saw when he opened the door astonished him.

She stood in the centre of the room wearing the dress, and had braided her hair in a style that was simple but of the utmost elegance. As she shimmered in the light of the lamp, she took his breath away, no matter that he had just travelled a hundred leagues in the company of the fairest creature breathing in Arda.

“Where did it all go?” she asked, with a princely wave of the hand about the room.

“Thrown onto the compost heap in small batches. I kept only these for you.” He entered and opened the cabinet, showing her the bags of gold, silver and gems. “You can smelt down the metals, and use the gems.”

“Hantanyet,” she murmured. She closed the cabinet doors, and looked up at him.

“Well, I should get dressed,” he said. There would be a feast to welcome Arwen home that evening. “Should I wear white to match you, do you think? Or the blue one—”

Before he could say anything else, she had pushed him against the tapestry of Gondolin and was kissing him senseless.

 

A few years later, on the night of Tarnin Austa, they returned to their high love-nest above the valley. They shared a flask of elderberry wine and a harmonious silence interspersed by talk about friends and news. Estel’s latest adventures. Rumours of dwarves returning to Moria. The birth of a third son to Bain Lord of Dale.

“I will eternally be grateful to Bain’s father for that bottle of _urnen_ ,” Glorfindel said with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

“I have no idea what you mean. I took no more than a sip.”

“You downed half the flask, _melmenya_. I believe you would not have fallen into my arms otherwise, that night,” he said with a laugh. “Not the most auspicious of beginnings.”

“Agreed,” she said. “But we have not done badly since.”

“No. Not badly at all.”

She reached out her hand for the wineflask, and as she took it from him she slipped something into his hand.

By the silver radiance of the moon and stars, he saw on his palm a pale, slender, shimmering ring, gossamer-light and barely visible.

“ _Ithildin_ ,” he said in surprise.

Her hand uncurled to show a second ring in her own palm.

 _Ithildin_. The mithril alloy perfected by the Noldorin smiths of Eregion, which had not been made in Ennor since the days of Celebrimbor, since mithril was no longer to be found.

“There was little in the books to go by, but I managed to figure out the formula.” Pride glinted in her long, black eyes. “They will be invisible when worn. Not even the sharpest of elven eyes would note their faint glimmer by moonlight or starlight against the sheen of elven skin.”

“But where did you get mithril…?” And then, he remembered.

A year into her apprenticeship, he had found her sitting outside the smithy, reading a book on the smiths of Eregion. Camaen had been born after the Last Alliance, and she had questions about mithril, which she had never seen. Ecstatic at being so welcome for once, Glorfindel had spent a happy hour answering her questions as best as he could. Seeing the speculative gleam in her eye when he told her the mines of Khazad-dûm were closed, he had added firmly, “And no!—I am not leading an expedition to Moria just so you and Camaen can mine mithril.”

But he had brought her something the next day.

“A _comb_?” Aghast and in awe at the same time, she had turned the light, precious, silvery metal reverently in her hand. The slender thing was worth more than seven hundred times its weight in gold. At least.

“I have never used it. It was a gift from an admirer,” he had said a little sheepishly. “It is yours now. Do what you will with it.”

Now, as they stood on the high ledge by the waterfalls, he asked her, “What made you decide to make the rings?”

She shrugged and smiled. “I wanted an excuse to experiment with Ithildin.”

He smiled. She would not say it, but he sensed her heart’s answer. Somehow it felt right. It felt like time. And one day, he prayed, she would feel the same about breaking their secrecy.

“So when shall we…?”

“Why not now?”

“As we are?” He looked at their attire: hunting tunics and leggings and boots.

“Why not? Does it matter?”

It did not. So under the Midsummer moon and stars, they joined hands, and called on Eru Ilúvatar and the Valar as witnesses, and prayed blessings on their bond, and slipped the secret rings on each other’s right forefingers.

And after they kissed, they smiled radiantly at each other.

“ _Vesseya_ ,” he said, kissing the ring on her hand.

And smiling at him a little wryly, she replied for the first time, “ _Vennoya._ ”

“You are not going to pursue any other… special ring-making projects after this, are you?”

Her eyes twinkled in amusement. “Oh, no. I think the Noldor are quite done with all that.”

 

The knock on the door reverberated in the dark, silent corridor. “Hello there! Begging your pardon, but… are you quite all right in there?”

No answer.

The elderly hobbit shivered in the cold of the dark corridor. Wrapped in a green robe tied at the waist with a yellow sash, a matching night cap perched on his head, he had just raised his fist to knock again when the door swung open. Obsidian eyes gazed down on the diminutive visitor in some astonishment. In the light of the taper held aloft by the hobbit, the _elleth’s_ hair shone like black silk. She was wrapped in a blue robe dark as midnight.

“Bilbo Baggins?” she said faintly, with a perplexed frown.

Bilbo recognized the smith. “Oh, my dear Lady Lómiel!” he said in admirably fluent Sindarin. “Forgive me for disturbing you at this hour… but I heard some sounds through the wall. I thought someone was hurt. I did not know this was _your_ room.”

The glittering obsidian eyes widened slightly in shock as they gazed down at the hobbit. “You… are… _next door?”_

“Yes, indeed!” the hobbit, hugging himself to keep warm, nodded his head in the direction of the bedchamber into which he had just moved. The chamber between Maeglin and Glorfindel’s, which had lain empty for a hundred and seventeen years till it had gained a new resident this night.

She looked appalled. “Oh… I must have been dreaming. About a battle. A furious and frenetic battle.”

The bachelor nodded understandingly. “Ah, I dream of battles sometimes too… giant spiders, and goblins, and, of course, that terrible battle at the Lonely Mountain. Please knock on my door if my dreams keep you awake too.”

She managed a smile. “May no further dreams disturb either of us tonight. _Ollo vae, perian_.” She bowed her head gracefully.

 _“Ollo vae, híril-nín,”_ replied the hobbit, beaming affably. The tassels on his nightcap swung as he bowed politely in return, then ambled back to his new chamber at Imladris.

She closed the door behind her, leaned on it, and exhaled slowly.

Glorfindel, who had been hiding behind the door, slid his arms around her, and they leaned against each other and stifled their laughter as much as they could.

“Now we know how thin these walls are,” said Glorfindel softly, kissing her on the nose.

“They were a foot thick at Gondolin,” said Maeglin with a regretful sigh.

“Not that we had need of it then, my prince,” he said, as they made their way back to her bed.

“Are hobbit ears very sharp?” she asked, as they slipped under the sheets.

“Fairly, for mortals. Poor Bilbo. I would dearly love to hang Erestor by his ankles over a ravine right now.”

“Hmmm… ‘a furious and frenetic battle’. Shall we resume?”

“Will it not disturb our good hobbit?”

“I shall do my utmost to die quietly. But it depends, of course, on how you wield your weapon…”

 

As the archer dressed in the green and brown garb of a Mirkwood hunter rode through Imladris valley with Glorfindel, his eyes were busy taking in every detail of the trees and gardens lining the road, and the grand house ahead of him.

Standing before the great entrance, Elrond observed the laughing violet eyes and pale silver-blond hair of his guest. Glorfindel said something to the young _ellon_ and they exchanged warm, oddly similar smiles that lit up the spring evening. But once the archer’s eyes rested on Elrond, his face grew solemn and he pulled himself taller, conscious of his role as ambassador.

 _“Le suilannon, Hîr Elrond,”_ said the prince of Mirkwood solemnly and courteously, after he had gracefully dismounted from his steed. He swept a deep and deferential bow. _“Ni veren an le ngovaned!_ I bring greetings and well-wishes from my father King Thranduil of the Greenwood.”

 _So, amongst themselves they still call it that,_ thought Elrond, as he bowed his head to his guest. “Welcome and well met, Legolas Thranduilion,” said the Lord of Imladris with a smile. 

At dinner that night, Legolas befriended Elladan and Elrohir, who remembered him as a shy, tiny elfling peeking out from behind his father’s robe during their visit to Mirkwood eight hundred and fifty years ago. Before long, the Woodland Prince had warmed up and was merrily regaling his neighbours at the table with tales of their adventures on the way to Imladris, and the awesome prowess of Glorfindel in slaughtering the pack of orcs and wargs they had encountered just east of the Misty Mountains. It was his first journey so far from his birthplace, and the older elves at the table smiled at his youthful enthusiasm and excitement at discovering the wide lands of Ennor.

“Legolas exaggerates—he had quite an impressive body count himself,” said Glorfindel. “He is the Mirkwood’s finest warrior!”

Legolas glowed with pleasure at his hero’s praise.

“And how did you find your sojourn at the Mirkwood, Lord Glorfindel?” asked Erestor. “Not too many spiders, I hope?”

“Only about two dozen spiders on the way in and out. The Dorwinion wine was, as always, excellent! And I must say that the woodland folk outdid themselves in hospitality.” Even Thranduil had been in a singularly good mood.

“Do you mean the hospitality of our woodland realm _ellith_?” laughed Legolas. “I believe they declare a day of mourning every time he leaves,” he said to Elladan and Elrohir. “I have never seen anyone attract so many maids in their wake.” He lowered his voice confidentially as he spoke. “He cannot keep them out of his bedchamber at night no matter how hard he tries _._ There was one really funny incident with a tenacious Silvan damsel. She almost caused a riot in the guest wing, and in the end the guards had to escort her out of his room—”

Soft as his voice was, an intense hush fell over the entire dining hall. Just a fraction of a second. Then everyone seemed highly engrossed either with their wine or the food on their plates, and tried not to look somewhere.

Legolas paused in mid-sentence, arrested by the stricken look on Glorfindel’s face. The elflord’s blue eyes had darkened and for the first time Legolas saw what looked like trepidation in the face of the fearless warrior. He was staring at someone at the far end of the long table.

There, seated in between Lord Elrond and an elderly hobbit familiar to Legolas, was a beauty with hair as black as a raven’s wing. She sat very still, her eyes fixed on a point on the table just beyond her plate. She wore a gown of deep red and its ruby hue threw into stunning relief her snowy skin and shining black hair, which fell loose down her back, held only by a thin gold circlet with a single white gem on her brow. Her perfect features were immobile and expressionless, but a golden fire was beginning to flicker and flash dangerously in her obsidian eyes. Her slender white hand held a fork poised in mid-air above her plate, and her fingers were tightening on it as though she might stab someone with it.

Very quietly, she laid down her fork, rose from her chair with the regal dignity of a queen, made a small curtsey to Elrond at the head of the table and walked out of the hall.

Glorfindel flushed, rose quickly, and with a bow to Elrond and the whole company left the hall as well.

“I am so sorry, I had no idea!” cried Legolas remorsefully.

There was much less state and formality at Imladris than the woodland realm. Erestor, Lindir and Elrond’s twins rushed out to the verandah that ran the length of the dining hall. After some hesitation, curiosity won over propriety, and Legolas followed.

They saw the lass running through the gardens with Glorfindel in hot pursuit. Near the pond, he caught her hand and pulled her to a stop. Tried to placate her earnestly.

_“Melmenya—“_

Five pairs of elven ears tuned into the conversation.

“What is he saying?” asked Legolas, who had perfectly good hearing but could not understand Quenya.

“ _‘Nothing happened—’_ ” said Elrohir, straining his ears, for the golden-haired lord was speaking quietly and quickly. “It is not easy. They are using a very old Quenya.”

“For how long have they been—er—” enquired Legolas, imagining with some glee the mourning of the Mirkwood maidens once they learned Ennor’s most eligible bachelor was spoken for.

“Forty-six years,” said Erestor.

“No, fifty-eight. Since the Gondolin anniversary celebrations, I think,” Lindir said.

“Fifty-eight!” said Bilbo at Lindir’s elbow. “Oh my! What are they waiting for?”

“Well—it has all been rather secretive actually. I think she is a bit shy—” began Lindir.

The shy beauty gave the golden-haired warrior a tight slap across the face. It resounded loud and clear across the rose gardens.

“ _Oohhh_. . .” murmured the audience at the dining windows.

“What is she saying now?” asked Legolas, seconded by Bilbo.

“ _’Go kiss a balrog—‘”_ said Erestor, who looked like he was enjoying this more than he should.

“Those were choice words a little ruder than that, I think,” said Elrond drily from behind his sons, having joined the group on the verandah at some point in the last few seconds with Arwen, who was trying not to laugh, at his side.

“Now _he_ is angry.”

“There she goes again.”

“She runs well.”

“No one outruns Glorfindel. Oh, he has her. Good tackle.”

Glorfindel, all too aware of the attention they were getting from the dining hall, slung his kicking and struggling beloved over his shoulder, and carried her towards the bridges near the waterfalls, out of earshot.

“All righty, everyone, I think dessert is being served,” said Bilbo, eyeing the plate of delectable lemon tart being placed on the table behind them.

“You must excuse us, Legolas. We are all family here in this household,” said Elrond, as everyone took their seats again.

“Extremely nosy family,” said Elrohir cheerfully as he sat down.

Legolas reflected that this lack of formality would take quite a lot of getting used to, but he rather liked it.

 

“How can you know me so poorly after all these years?” he was protesting indignantly. “How many times must you hear me say it? I have bedded just one in all my two lives: you. There is just one for whom my heart beats: you.”

“How can you wonder it upsets me when you let half of Endórë paw at you and press up against you?”

“I know, _vesseya_ , I know. But I do nothing to encourage it. And you know I never reciprocate! I step back, or hold them away.”

“Oh yes—ever _so_ courteously and chivalrously! I heard the twins’ tale of the time they accompanied you to Mirkwood. You let one Silvan skank stick her tongue down your throat!”

“Holy Varda! Don’t you know by now how much they exaggerate? And that was eight-and-a-half centuries ago!”

“Was it the same skank in your chamber this round?”

He sighed. “No. Someone else. Thranduil entered with Legolas and his entire retinue just as… I was trying to… persuade her to leave. The King doesn’t believe in knocking. Nothing happened that should worry you.”

The mind-bond between mates could be a curse at times. Her eyes narrowed dangerously at the flashes of images. A bed. A brunette with grey-green eyes. A lot of flesh and very little clothing.

“ _Nothing_ indeed!” she growled. “She was _all over you,_ I surmise?”

“She was… a little aggressive, but I had it under control.”

“Under control!” she snarled. “You know what I think it is? You enjoy it more than you will admit to yourself!”

“I do _not_ enjoy it! You have no idea how tiresome it is!” He caught hold of her hands, and gazed into her obsidian eyes. “Do you know _how much_ I have missed you these seven months? Have we not gone through this enough? There is nothing I could say that I have not said a hundred times already. By all that is holy, what will it take before you give me your trust? Before you will believe in me?”

The fire in her black eyes died down. She gazed at him wretchedly. “I… Forgive me.”

He pulled her into his arms, and they kissed with all the hunger and need of a seven-month-long fast.

When they finally broke apart, he looked down at her tenderly but also with some exasperation. “Why, _why_ is it so difficult for you to trust me? I have been and will always be true to you. You know it.”

“Yes. Yes, I do know it.”

“Why do you fear so much, then?”

“I do not know.” Deep within her _fëa,_ scars lingered still. The deepest among them, that she was not worthy of love.

After a silence, he took her hand and looked resolute. “There is one and only one solution. Marry me.”

“What are you talking about? We _are_ married—”

“Before the whole world, I mean. Shout it from the peaks of the Hithaeglir! It is the only way. I am sorely weary of throwing _nissi_ out of my bed when I travel. I want you to move into my room, and not have to be creeping about every day—”

“What is wrong with _my_ room?”

“ _Whichever_ room. _Our_ room. I want to kiss you in the corridors if I want, and hold your hand during festivals if I want, and not worry anyone will see. _Everyone knows!_ Every _nér_ and _nís_ and _rocco_ in Imladris. No _nís_ in our valley has propositioned me for the last three decades. Bilbo knew within a week of his arriving to stay here—not because he heard us next door, but because a little bird who plays a lute told him. Our good hobbit wagged his finger and told me not stay too long away from my lady and ‘be good’ when I left. The entire valley knows about us. And _you_ know full well that they know! Why else did you march out of the dining hall in front of the entire household?”

Yes. She did know. She barely kept up the pretence, nowadays. But she folded her arms and looked away from him, her mouth pressed in a stubborn line.

“ _Vesseya,”_ he said firmly, “I want our friends to no longer have to play this _ridiculous_ charade, pretending they know nothing. And it annoys me that some imagine I have a commitment problem. Erestor refers to you as ‘that poor, wronged girl’. Bilbo pats my hand and advises me to ‘do the right thing’. Gildor the nomad had the gall to tell me last spring that it is about time I ‘settle down’. I should like to see _him_ ‘settle down’!”

Arms still folded, she gave him a sidelong glance. The corner of her mouth was beginning to quiver in amusement.

“Give me one— _one_ good reason why we should not,” he pressed her.

“Hmmm…”

He got down on his knees before her. “Maeglin Lómiel Eöliel, make an honest man of me, I pray. Let us keep away and treasure the secret bands of starlight and moonlight. And once I wear your gold ring on my finger for all to see, I assure you that all the _nissi_ in Arda will give me a wide berth. Forever.”

She gazed down at him in silence for a while.

It might have been that fifty-eight years of connubial contentment had at last given her confidence in the durability of their love.

It might have been the thought of all the elfmaids of Arda weeping at the sight of the gold ring on his finger, including the skanks of Mirkwood.

It might have been a casual comment he had made one evening six years ago, about exploring the lands to the east together some day—a hint that he might consider heading east to Cuiviénen and beyond, rather than west to Aman.

It might have been the scare she had four winters ago, when Beril carried him back to Imladris gravely injured. She had faced, for six terrifying, devastating hours, the possibility of a life without him, and come close to collapse. As the household thronged outside the healing hall, murmuring and anxious, Lindir and Camaen had hovered anxiously at her side, unable to offer the comfort she refused to acknowledge she needed. Silently, she had framed her first desperate prayer in this life. And, not having much faith in prayer, had resolved to brave the voyage to the west should his _fëa_ go to Mandos a second time.

But Eru had been kind. Within a day he was out of danger, and conscious, and able to smile as she gave him a tongue-lashing for almost getting himself killed. If the incident had not entirely restored her faith in prayer, it had shifted something within her. Dreaded it might be, but Aman was no longer an impossibility.

It might have been all of these things, or something else altogether. Whatever it was, she now smiled, and took his face in her hands, and kissed his lips with the utmost tenderness.

He could hardly believe it had finally happened. “I take it that is a… yes?”

She nodded. And as his face lit up with jubilation, she held up one finger and spoke sternly. “But a very quiet ceremony, mind you. No crowds, no fuss. We shall announce it after the event.”

“Very well. Lord Elrond to say the blessings for us?”

“And Lady Galadriel, I suppose, if she would consent to travel here. No one else.”

“Certainly, _vesseya_.”

 

The twilight ceremony took place two months later, on a high bridge near the largest waterfall in the valley, just as spring began to make way for summer.

 _“If you imagine I am going to forgive you for this, you are mistaken,”_ Maeglin said to him, as she accepted the congratulations and gifts of the eight-hundred-and-ninety-seventh guest, her smile beginning to hurt.

 _“You shall survive. Relax. Enjoy it.”_ Glorfindel, at ease and luminously smiling, was in his element, as he received the gifts from another guest and handed them to the elfmaids standing behind them, who were arranging and organizing the gifts on and under two large tables on the lawns before the house.

They were both resplendent in robes of white and grey embroidered with silver and gold, the handiwork of Arwen and her ladies.

The wedding feast had begun at noon. Numerous white pavilions had blossomed across the gardens, and between them were spaces for dancing, and tables groaning under the weight of the Imladrin chefs’ most delectable dishes. Milling around the nuptial couple was a crowd of just about every _ellon_ and _elleth_ and _roch_ in Imladris. Mingling with them were Estel and some forty of the Rangers of the North. A contingent of almost thirty from Mirkwood included Legolas Thranduilion, while the party of ninety from Lothlórien was headed by Celeborn and included Haldir and Teliaris his wife. Gandalf the Grey and Radagast the Brown represented the Istari, Círdan was there with some mariners from the Havens, and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire graced the event in his finest waistcoat. Under the jewel-coloured lamps festooning the trees, the multitude of people stretched out from the lawns before the house, to the waterfall pools.

To be fair to Glorfindel, it was not at all his fault. He had spoken only to Elrond, and sent a private message to Galadriel, just as he had promised Maeglin. Yet the word had somehow spread like wildfire, and the world had invited themselves. Amazingly, Erestor and Lindir had been able to handle the load of guests with no problems… and seemed barely surprised by the influx.

Maeglin had been more nervous about meeting Lady Galadriel than she would ever care to admit. Upon her arrival at Imladris, the Lady of the Golden Woods had looked deep into the black eyes of her nephew’s chosen with her piercing, brilliant gaze. Then slowly, she had smiled.

_“I rejoice to see the beauty of Irissë daughter of Nolofinwë walk the mortal lands again.”_

And taking her cousin’s daughter by the arm to walk into the house, the Lady had added, as their lips spoke of the journey and the weather, _“You have much of your mother’s beauty and spirit, but your lot shall be happier by far than hers, young one. May this life be blessed as the other was not.”_

Maeglin had caught her breath, and turned her own sharp, dark glance on the Lady of Lothlórien’s face. And then the two had shared a smile.

There was joyous feasting and dancing and revelry until the sun set. Then, as the stars grew brilliant in the sky, Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond declared the blessings of Manwë and Varda over the joined hands of Glorfindel and Maeglin, as the four of them stood on the waterfall bridge. And as the gold rings made by the bride were slipped onto their forefingers, everyone murmured to see them glow in the twilight with a brightness beyond that of the finest gold... a brightness akin to that of the famed hair of the groom and the Lady of Lothlórien. For Maeglin had finally discovered the use most fitting for the tress shorn from his head, that so long ago had been the proof of his love for her. Finding a means to capture its light within precious metal, she created gold brighter than any that had been before, or has been since.

There followed music and song, and feasting and dancing all night. Bilbo contentedly fell asleep on cushions under an oak tree. Gandalf illuminated the night with exquisite fireworks of flowers and fountains and great citadels. The Imladrim laughed when Círdan got tipsy and pushed Erestor into the fountain. And Estel and Arwen stole kisses high above the crowd in the star dome.

And when the Lord of the Golden Flower led out his bride for a dance under the stars and the moon and a blaze of fireworks, the Lord of the Mole did not decline.

In the brilliant flares of jewel-light that streamed from Gandalf’s staff, Glorfindel thought he saw the faces of the Valar smiling down on them, as the glittering sparks hung high in the sky, and ere they dissolved into the darkness of the night.

Woven into the music of the flute and the harp, Maeglin thought she could hear faint dance music, echoing down through the ages from a great hall in Gondolin.

And in the memories, as she danced at last with her golden-haired love, there was no longer a shadow of shame.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Abedithon le (S) – talk to you later

Daeradar (S) - grandfather

No vaer i dhû (S) – may the night be good (good night)

A pusta (Q) – Stop that

Ollo vae, perian (S) – Sweet dreams, halfling (hobbit)

Le suilannon (S) – I give you greetings (reverential)

Ni veren an le ngovaned (S) – It brings me joy to meet you

Endórë (Q) - Middle-Earth / Ennor (S)

Rocco (Q) - horse / roch (S)

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for this overly long chapter. I couldn’t bring myself to split it into two, after already splitting off the “Sweet Nothings” chapter.
> 
> The bit with Thranduil’s sister and Glorfindel was from my earliest draft of the story… I dithered over it, and ended up changing the characters involved, and pushing it to a much later post-War-of-the-Ring chapter. Those of you who read my first version might recognize it and I would love to know what you think of my decision to revert to the original.
> 
> On Celebrimbor and Maeglin - I never was able to accept Celebrimbor going to Gondolin after the fall of Nargothrond. I never felt Tolkien thought it through carefully enough. Of course Huor and Hurin and Tuor had been exceptions, but how many exceptions would isolationist Turgon make in opening his secret kingdom to outsiders? Next, even if Turgon had compassion on the refugees of Nargothrond for Finrod’s sake, he wouldn’t welcome anyone from the House of Fëanor, even one who had disowned his father. The Eldar outside Gondolin would not have known its location, so without the aid of eagles or Ulmo, they would never have found their way there, and I cannot see paranoid Turgon sending out scouts to invite them.  So I think Celebrimbor and the refugees of Nargothrond would have gone south to the Havens. The Silver-fist and Maeglin never met in the First Age, and he would have met Glorfindel only in the Second Age.
> 
> My thanks to Isilloth on FF.net for pointing out to me that in HoME the Eldar can sense if one is married. I am very obviously non-canon on this, for it would kill all my fun in these few chapters.  
> I think there are a number of readers who can stop reading at this point. Yes, our hero and traitor are all hooked up and openly married now. The rest of the story may not be as interesting to you, so thank you for your kind support and adieu.


	25. The Sword Laid Down

“Four _periain_ ,” said Glorfindel. “How can you send _four_ _periain_ on such a dangerous quest?”

The company of three in Elrond’s study looked out of the west-facing windows. A little snow was floating down in soft, light flakes. Four small, furry-footed figures, looking like children wrapped in soft, thick cloaks, walked below them on the snow-covered terraces overlooking the gorge of the Bruinen.

Elrond was silent in response to Glorfindel’s question. He had, indeed, initially considered sending his Commander. For could there have been a more natural choice? The warrior had slain a balrog. He had driven Sauron out of Lindon and fought against him at Eregion and at Barad-dûr. He had defeated the Witch-King of Angmar at Fornost, and the Nazgûl fled before his power. There had seemed to be little need to even deliberate it.

But Gandalf had been seeking behind closed doors to persuade the Lord of Imladris otherwise, and when young Peregrin Took had loudly voiced his determination to follow the Fellowship willy-nilly if he was excluded, Elrond had relented—suddenly, and against his better judgement. And with that, four hobbits had completed the fellowship.

Glorfindel, standing behind Elrond as the decision had been made, had been stunned, then appalled, then up in arms.

Now, the elf-lord, the wizard and the elf-warrior stood by the study windows listening to the hobbits’ banter as it mingled with the rushing song of the Bruinen river.

 “They barely know how to hold a short sword,” said the balrog slayer. “In an attack by _yrch_ and wargs, they would survive a _minute_ if they are lucky.”

“Thankfully, they will not be on their own,” said Gandalf.

“Yes, thank Eru. But the five of you should concentrate on protecting the Ringbearer and Samwise. Why have Meriadoc and Peregrin add to the burden? They are mere babes!”

As if to prove his point, the two younger hobbits began at that point to roughhouse each other over a disparaging remark about the wit of Tooks. Soon handfuls of snow, and guffaws of laughter, and silly words were flying wildly back and forth on the terrace.

Glorfindel, well-known to love a good snow fight, could only say with a sigh, “At least their throwing aim is good. If only snowballs and stones would be proof enough against the Nazgûl and against _yrch_ wielding swords and spears. I have grown deeply fond of the _periain_. But I fear for them and the success of the quest if they are four out of the nine you send. I would have desired a month _at least_ to train them in the fundamentals of swordplay, and they are leaving in a _week_.”

“I do not believe fighting prowess will matter greatly in this quest,” said Gandalf.

“With the armies of the Shadow overrunning the lands east, it is hard to believe they would have no use for it. And you have not given a single good reason why Meriadoc and Peregrin _should_ go. ‘Trust to their friendship.’ What manner of logic or wisdom is _that,_ Mithrandir?”

They watched the hobbits gaze south across the Bruinen gorge and huddle together in quieter, more earnest talk. They might have no idea of what lay before them, but they were feeling some of its enormity. As they looked towards the mountains, they looked smaller, more child-like, and more vulnerable than ever.

 “Elrond,” said Glorfindel softly, sensing the slightest wavering in his lord. “Send me with them. Please. Surely it was for a time such as this that I was sent.”

“There are many reasons why it is not for you to go, Glorfindel,” said Gandalf.

“Since we rely on speed and secrecy, their number must be small,” said Elrond

“Why nine? Why not _ten_? Ten is still a small number. Nine walkers for nine riders is poetic rubbish. One more elf _._ Just one more.”

“This is the age of mortals,” said Elrond. “In many senses this is no longer _our_ war, deeply though we may care about its outcome and the fate of these lands we are soon to depart.”

Glorfindel understood that Elrond spoke for the Eldar. For Legolas, half-Silvan in blood, prince of a people who had no desire to sail west and whose roots were deep in this land, it was still his fight.

“Can an elf not elect to fight for mortals? Would they protest?” he said in exasperation, even as he pondered if he, too, might not remain and thus make this fight his.

“Should we send two for the elves, you may be sure the dwarves will be up in arms,” said Gandalf. “And since secrecy is of the utmost importance, _you cannot go_. You would draw notice. Your light and power would shine like a beacon to the enemy.”

“And yours would not? You both know that I travel in the Wild all the time. Mithrandir, _you_ have travelled with me! You _know_ I can pass unobserved. Almost as well as you do.”

It was true. With his shining hair hidden by cloak and hood, he could pass as silently and secretly as any other through any terrain. Unfortunately, at the moment that he spoke, the winter sun emerged from behind a cloud and its beams shone through the study windows. His golden hair caught and magnified it in a dazzling halo, and his whole being was illuminated in a nimbus of light. It seemed to be as a verdict from the heavens.

Elrond and Gandalf looked at the luminous vision of beauty before them—Glorfindel at his least inconspicuous—and smiles played at the corners of their mouths.

“Do you need me to shear off my hair?” the warrior asked with a touch of desperation, almost half-serious.

“It is more than the hair.” Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. “One manifestation of your power in battle against orcs or the Nazgûl and we would be given away.”

“One flash of light from your staff would arguably do the same,” Glorfindel retorted. “If you can avoid using your staff and magic, I can avoid displays of power. I shall rely alone on my sword and my bow and the strength of my limbs, and those would surely be of use.”

“This quest is not a matter of strength, Glorfindel,” said Gandalf. “Not a matter of strength, or a warrior’s skill.”

“Strange is the wisdom of a _maia_. Is the quest then a matter of skill with a sling or pebble and a penchant for good food? The _periain_ are neither quieter nor stealthier than an elf, and they are venturing into lands swarming with orcs armed to the teeth!” 

“You are the tallest and mightiest of elf-lords and elf-warriors in Ennor, Glorfindel, and it is true that in battle you are worth an army,” said Elrond. “But this quest is not an open confrontation with the dark forces. It is that which is small, even that which is deemed weak and insignificant—precisely that which the Dark Lord would scorn to notice—which will ultimately be his undoing. This is not your quest.”

“I am sworn to protect. With the fate of all Ennor hanging in the balance, how do you expect me to stand idly by as the Ringbearer walks into the jaws of Mordor? It is a hard thing, as a warrior, to be told to lay your sword down when a war has begun. Mithrandir, you told me, some time ago, that my service in Ennor was not done. That there was a purpose to my being here.”

“Your place and purpose is here in this realm, and at my side,” said Elrond. “Stay and protect this valley, for we do not know if any dark assault will come against it.”

Glorfindel sighed deeply, and folded his arms, struggling within himself.

“Be sure that there will be many battles fought across Ennor in the struggle that is to come,” said Gandalf. “You do not have to walk with the Ring to play a part.”

Glorfindel gazed out of the window across the valley he loved so well and was silent for a while. “When I rode out with the scouts, we encountered some wargs, but I felt it deep in my _fae_ : there will be no dark assault upon this place. I _know_ it. The battles of this war will be east and south of the Hithaeglir. My sword would be idle here.”

And Elrond and the wizard knew deep within them that he spoke true. He turned to face them, his fair face stern. “I have heard your reasons, and I remain unconvinced. I am not convinced that only nine should go, nor that my power would endanger the quest, nor that only one should go for the elves, nor that the unhappiness of dwarves over two elves on the quest should even be a consideration. If nine walkers it must be, I can only beg you one last time to change your mind about sending four _periain_. I offer the Company more than fighting, tracking or hunting skills. I am a healer. I cook. I know the lands and peoples between the Hithaeglir and Barad-dûr well. I speak all the languages of the Free Peoples fluently, and a smattering of Black Speech for reconnaissance and interrogation purposes. Let me replace young Peregrin Took! Send the boy home to the Shire, or I will use the same threat as he did: you will have to lock me up, or I swear I will follow after the Nine when they leave. Unless Eru or his Valar themselves tell me nay.”

And with a bow to them, he turned and strode out of the study. The room grew darker once he left.

Elrond shook his head. “I fear he may make good on his threat,” he said to the grey wizard.

Gandalf chuckled. “Well, well. He has called upon the name of Eru and the Valar. I have the oddest feeling he may just get an answer.”

 

Maeglin was humming—actually _humming_ —as she returned to the house from the smithy.

Her mind was filled with glowing images of her accomplishment: the reforging of the sword shards of Narsil. Into that work had gone all her expertise and experience from her years in Gondolin and her years under her father’s tutelage. Every fibre of her being was singing and alive. She did not feel weary after the long day of work, though Camaen and Hatheldir were exhausted. She felt as though she could climb a mountain, take on a balrog alone.

Glóin had watched as the three elven smiths subjected the ancient sword of dwarven make to repeated rounds of welding, regrinding, hardening and tempering. He had glowered at them from under his thick white eyebrows, disapproving and dour, as they cast elven spells upon the metal and set many intricate runes of power and engravings of the sun, moon and stars upon the blade. When Gimli and Estel joined them at the smithy, Maeglin caught sight of discreet hand signals between father and son. Bets were on as to whether the sword formed from the fragments would be weak, whether it would lose length, or whether the metal would be thinned.

_I’ll show you, you arrogant bastards. The blade will slice through stone like butter, and be neither thinner nor shorter by even a hair._

If Hatheldir had been unnerved by the dwarves’ scrutiny, and Camaen had been cheerfully oblivious, Maeglin’s eyes had glinted with relish at the challenge. She wondered what the dwarves would have thought had they known that Maeglin as a boy had watched the birth of this very sword in Telchar’s forge six thousand years ago. Some of the techniques being used now in the Imladrin forge had been learned by Eöl from the dwarves themselves, and refined and developed by him. And what would those proud stiff-necked dwarves think if they knew that those ancient and revered techniques of the great Gamil Zirak and Telchar, lost by the dwarves over the Third Age, survived now only in the memory of a she-elf in Imladris? And a faint smirk had graced her lips as she worked.

At last, the Sword-that-was-broken was made whole, and reborn as a weapon of surpassing beauty, lethal and strong. Not the slightest trace of the fault lines remained, and after they had given it its final grind and polished it, it had gleamed bright with a reddish hue as Camaen laid it in Estel’s hands. The resurrected sword had sung and flamed as the descendant of Elendil had swung it through the air and in a ringing voice given it a new name: Andúril, Flame of the West.

And Maeglin, catching sight of the hand signals between Glóin and Gimli, reckoned that if those signs had not changed too greatly over two ages, she could read there some grudging approval and respect amid the nit-picking critique. She met their eyes as they rested on her with some curiosity and wonder. And when she bowed respectfully to them, they bowed back.

Maeglin retired to the chambers she shared with Glorfindel wearing a triumphant glow.

In the end, it had been she who had moved in with Glorfindel after the wedding. With its two side rooms, his quarters had more than ample space for them both. Bilbo had moved out of the large adjoining room and chosen a smaller, cosier, south-facing room in the same wing. “I am only a little fellow, and I don’t want all that huge space and high ceilings. It’s all very good for you tall folks,” the hobbit had said, “but it gets too chilly in winter for my old bones.”

The smith was stripping off her sweaty, work-stained clothes when her warrior opened the door. One look at his face would have been enough to tell her his day had not gone as well as hers, even if Estel had not brought her word of who had been chosen as the nine walkers. If she was honest with herself, she would have realized it was another reason for her good mood. It was as though she had been holding her breath for two months, and could now at last breathe freely.

“Come here,” she said, clad only in a white slip and opening her arms to him.

Without a word, he tossed her onto the bed and dove in after her. Bilbo would have been thankful he was no longer in residence next door.

Sometime after that, as they sat in the bath, he shared his frustration and told her about his concerns regarding the hobbits, and recounted what Elrond and Gandalf had said.

“What it comes down to is this,” he said at the end, as he rinsed soap from her hair. “Is it not my duty and responsibility to be on this quest?”

“You were sent to help the _perelda_. Not to bring Sauron down.”

“Ah, that help to Elrond has from the very outset included bringing Sauron down. All the more since I have come to love these lands and these people. _And to hate Sauron with a vengeance._ He remembered the deaths of Celebrimbor and many other friends in Eregion and at Barad-dûr. He thought of Maeglin. Gently towelling her hair dry, he realized how very personal this had become for him. He frowned as he caught sight of her thigh. “You’re bruised. Was I too rough just now?”

“No. I liked it.” She took a comb and passed it through his golden tresses, then asked a question she had wondered about for a long time. “Why did you and Elrond not sail back to Aman after the Second Age?”

“The Dark Lord might have been vanquished, but we were uneasy… Isildur had refused to destroy the One Ring, and with his death it remained at large. Elrond had other reasons to stay, besides. Neither he nor his new bride had any memories of Valinor, and his bride’s family desired to remain here. He himself had little longing at that time for a reunion with parents he could barely remember. For a while he kept alive hopes of finding Maglor, though that has waned over time.” He in turn combed through her hair. “For me, whilst Elrond remains here, so will I.” A silence fell… Elrond was preparing to leave soon, and the dreaded spectre of going to Aman hung over them.

They stood in their wardrobe, choosing clothes. “Surely not the midnight-blue _again_ , _melmenya_ ,” he said.  “You have been wearing that every week.”

With an arched eyebrow and a wry smile at him, she put back the midnight-blue and searched through the dresses further. “You were saying that you saw going on this quest as a duty.”

“In the last hundred years, I had begun to lose sight of my purpose here. Now we know that Sauron has returned, I have found it again. I need to see this to the end. To finish what was left undone at Barad-dûr by the Last Alliance.” He was looking through robes of a dozen shades of blue and wondering which to wear.

She took out a dress of deep purple that she seldom wore. “You cannot bear to miss out on the adventure.”

He was about to retort that with the fate of Middle Earth and all its Free Peoples at stake, and given the grave dangers of the quest, _adventure_ would be the last thing on anyone’s mind, when he caught her eye.

“You are right,” he admitted after a pause. “It is also that.”

“And I begin to see the meaning in Elrond and Mithrandir’s arguments. Sauron expects the armies of the wise and mighty to rise against him. He expects the War of Wrath and the Siege of Barad-dûr again. He would never expect the foolishness of nine walkers and the folly of small feet creeping into Mordor under the gaze of the Eye, barely armed.”

“I am capable of creeping into Mordor with the best _perian!_ And I would want to make sure that they get that far… though I know you would rather I stay here.” He pulled on light grey leggings and searched for his blue tunic with silver trim.

“Of course I would,” she said, a catch in her voice as she laced up her white undergarment. “Had you been chosen, I would have said nothing. But you have _not_ been chosen—”

She froze and caught her breath. They both did.

They felt it at the same time.

It was very small, very bright, very alive, and just come into being.

Their eyes, azure-blue and obsidian-black, grew wide as they looked at each other. 

“Just now?” he said, his eyes darkening with emotion. “It happened _just now_?”

She said nothing, still in shock, her black eyes dazed.

“How can it be?” he said softly in wonder. “During a _war_. Of all times, it _shouldn’t happen_ during a war—”

Then another little light kindled. And Glorfindel, still gazing into Maeglin’s wide obsidian eyes, found himself equally bereft of speech.

Dropping his tunic on the floor, he stepped towards her and kissed her tenderly. Lifting her in his arms carefully, he laid her down gently on their bed. He looked at her belly for a moment, then stooped to kiss it.

He looked up at her face. She still looked stunned. Even aghast.

Smiling, he gently brushed a damp strand of dark hair back from her face, lay down beside her, and held her in his arms.

And as his _fëa_ reached out to the two tiny, bright _fëar_ in loving welcome, and drew hers close to cradle it gently in the reassurance of his light, he knew he would not be following the nine.

 

Elrond stole a sidelong glance at Glorfindel, as the warrior sat lost in thought on a window ledge of the Star Dome. A chill winter breeze lifted his golden hair, and a light snow was falling, but he did not feel it though he wore only the thinnest of grey woollen cloaks over his tunic. There was little shelter from the elements in this high stone rotunda, despite the roof and the glass dome. Large open windows were set on all sides of the tower, giving clear views of the valley north, south, east and west. The Lord of Imladris himself wore a dark-red cloak trimmed with fur. Hardy as they were, not all elves were as impervious to the cold as the warrior of Valinor was.

It was now over a month since the Company of the Ring had set forth. As they had bidden farewell to the nine on a midwinter dusk, Glorfindel’s face had been serene. In fact, for the past month, Glorfindel had seemed to glow with a preternatural calm. The thoughts of many in the household were with the Company as they journeyed south, so the mood was more sombre, and there was less jollity and laughter in the Hall of Fire. But Elrond sensed his Commander was deep in thought over other issues. He had decided it was time to have a talk.

“They should have gone past Nanduhirion by now,” Glorfindel was saying to Elrond as he gazed south, “if all has gone according to plan.” He sat perched precariously on the window ledge, oblivious to the hundred-foot drop below it.

“I would feel better if you got down from that window, Glorfindel. Even you might be hard put to survive such a fall.”

The warrior swung himself gracefully onto the tower floor and stood next to Elrond.

“Glorfindel,” said Elrond gently. “I hope you do see why you could not go?”

“Yes. You were right. It was my pride that could not accept it. I have lived by the sword for five thousand years. It feels strange to lay it down.”

The border patrols continued to go out as a precaution. They had killed a few small packs of wargs in the first two weeks after the Company had left, but there had been nothing since. To have no work for one’s sword should be good news, but not when you know that there are vast battles afoot in far lands.

“Your sword need not be idle for long. Have you decided whether you will ride out with Elladan and Elrohir to join the Rangers?”

“I have decided.” The warrior paused, and Elrond saw a wistful look cross his face. “I will not go,” he said quietly and firmly, looking out of a window.

Elrond followed his gaze out of the west-facing tower window. From it, one could see the Imladris smithy lying beyond the rooftops of the great house. Wrapped in a dark blue winter cloak, a slender figure was carrying a load of firewood from a shed to the smithy.

“Excuse me a while, _hîr-nín.”_

Glorfindel vaulted out of the west-facing window even as he spoke, onto the snow covered rooftop that lay twenty feet below. “Give me two minutes,” he called back over his shoulder as he raced swiftly across the different levels of roofing to the other end of the house. He swung himself down by the bare trees growing there, and vanished from sight for a moment. Elrond watched as he reappeared, took the load of wood from his lady and carried it into the smithy for her.

And it occurred to Elrond that maybe he should start observing Lómiel as well.

Glorfindel came swiftly back over the roof, scaled the tower with ease using the rough masonry for hand and footholds, and swung himself back into the window, glowing from his exertions but not even breathing faster.

“There are stairs,” said Elrond drily.

“Ah, but that was so much more fun!” said the warrior, smiling radiantly. “Now. Where were we?”

“Why would you choose to stay here?” Elrond demanded. “You are restless from idleness here, and your energy has no outlet. You know you want to ride with the Rangers. You were desperate to walk with the Nine, and now there are battles in which you are _needed!”_

Glorfindel looked deeply conflicted as he began to pace slowly around the stone platform. Then, as though it had everything to do with what they had just been speaking of, he said, “Whatever the outcome of this war, whether the Ringbearer succeeds or fails in his quest, you will sail west.”

“Yes. It is so.”

“I might not sail, _peredhel_.”

“What?” said Elrond in shock. “I _know_ you have longed to return home to Valinor for five millennia, though you have not said it. Your family waits for you. _Our_ family waits for you.” Four-and-a-half millennia of bearing Vilya had wearied the Lord of Imladris. He longed for rest. He longed for his wife.

“Home and family are wherever my love chooses to be. And I think that she may choose to stay.”

“She is young. Perhaps she cannot feel yet the call of the sea, yet surely she will go wherever you choose.”

“She does not wish to go to Aman. There are… reasons.”

“Ah.” Elrond nodded. “I have had my guess about her… origins.”

“You have?” Glorfindel eyed him questioningly. “And what might that be, if not the prince of Gondolin?”

From the balrog slayer’s wry, gentle smile, Elrond could not tell if this was said in jest. “That she might be descended from Fëanorians.”

“Aah,” said Glorfindel, with a laugh. “Now, that _would_ make perfect sense, would it not? The secrecy about her parentage and where she comes from. That pride bordering on arrogance. That dark, fiery spirit. That ruthless devotion to and skill in craft. I must say she does seem more Fëanorian than Celebrimbor ever was!”

“It would explain much,” said Elrond. “Including her fluency and preference for Quenya, and her accent. And her aversion to going to Aman. You did come across a couple of their strongholds as you travelled the Ered Mithrin, did you not? And they had intermarried with the Avari.”

“Yes. Yes, that is so.” Glorfindel was looking amused.

Elrond hesitated a moment, then added, “And for some reason… I have thought of Maedhros at times when I looked into her eyes.”

“His eyes were grey, were they not?”

“Yes. It was not the colour, of course, but something elusive… in the expression. A haunted look at times. That was in her early years here.”

The torment and darkness of one who had known the tortures of Thangorodrim...

“I am amazed, _peredhel_ ,” said Glorfindel, still gently smiling. “You were thinking this all these years, and never once told me?”

“I thought it unnecessary. You would have loved her regardless, and I had no wish to trouble your heart. Kinslayers are much hated. I grew up among them, and I can tell you they knew all too well their names are accursed. I would understand why a child of their clan would fear to go to Aman.”

Glorfindel looked deep in thought. “Then you understand why we might not go.”

“A child of her years surely need have no fear of judgement for the sins of her fathers. That was six thousand years ago, and has naught to do with her. You should assure her on that point.”

Glorfindel looked away for a long while, a light frown on his fair brow, as though debating with himself. At last, his glittering blue eyes turned to look calmly and gravely into the grey eyes of his friend.

“Elrond, it is for her own sins that she fears judgement.”

Glorfindel saw the astonishment and perturbation cross the _peredhel’s_ face. He waited.

“You are not _still_ trying to tell me—” said Elrond at last.

“I am.”

“You have loved her and been wed for sixty-seven years, believing that she is…”

“She _is.”_ Then, knowing that Elrond needed to hear it, Glorfindel said solemnly: “She was Maeglin Lómion, son of Aredhel Ar-Feiniel and Eöl Lord of Nan Elmoth. Prince of Gondolin. Lord of the House of the Mole. She is now Lómiel, sent here in the body of an _elleth_ to Imladris after six thousand _coranári_ in the Halls of Mandos.”

Elrond gazed into the clear, lucid eyes of the balrog slayer and was silent.

The warrior smiled wryly. “Still you do not believe me. You think me mad.”

“No,” said Elrond slowly, quietly. “I am afraid I do believe you.” In his study room years ago, it had been easy to dismiss the balrog slayer’s nonsensical babblings as those of a mind deranged by the pressures of guilt, overwork, and repressed love or lust. Elrond could not dismiss what he now saw in those sane, calm eyes of azure blue.

“Thank you,” said Glorfindel quietly. “But there is no denying how mad it sounds. I do not blame you for disbelieving me.”

“When did you first _know?”_

“Elrond, from the very first moment I looked her full in the face.”

“ _How_ were you able to—when you had known her as… as… an _ellon_ …and knowing…”

“It is all right, Elrond. You may say it. When I knew she was The Traitor.”

“Yes. That.”

Glorfindel seated himself on the stone table at the centre of the room, pulled up his long legs and crossed them. “It was a struggle. You saw that.”

“Yes.”

“I was repelled… yet I could not but love her.” He rested his chin on his hand. “Then love overcame judgment… and at the last, truth nullified that judgment.” He told Elrond Maeglin’s tale. “It is one more reason I desired to walk with the Nine, Elrond. What Sauron did to her… it became personal in a way that even the deaths of Celebrimbor and all the others at Ost-in-Edhil had not made it.” He looked warily and slightly defensively at the _peredhel_. “So, do you now think ill of her?”

“No.” By now, Elrond was sitting on the edge of the cold stone table, next to his friend. “Not only because of what you have told me, but because I have never felt any evil in her. Pride but never malice. Secrets but never deceitfulness of nature. She has proven herself brave and selfless on the borders time and again. I admire her craft, and I trust in her sense of honour. She is a friend to all my children. She saved my son’s life. I have no reason to think ill of her.” Elrond paused, then asked, “Is this the redeeming work of Mandos? How… _changed_ is she from the man she once was?”

Glorfindel reflected for a while, taking no offence at the question. “Much. She is no longer the cunning, self-serving prince she once was.” He smiled. “She is not even scheming or manipulative in the little ways that an _elleth_ might employ to twist her _ellon_ around her finger. She cares no longer for power or the playing of power games. It amazes me at times, how content she is with the quiet life we have, who once had the ear of a king and a say in the lawmaking and rule of a kingdom. She has found acceptance here, and love, and they have wrought as much of the change as anything Mandos did in his Halls.”

“That Mandos should send her _here_ , rather than release her in Aman… does that mean she is _exiled?”_

“I do not know. I… I have not dared speak to her about that matter so openly yet.” He twisted the ends of a golden lock of hair in his lap. “It is the one thing we dare not speak of. But if exile it is, my desire would still be to sail with her to Aman. There, I would petition the Valar with all I have. Should they even then choose to turn her back to Ennor, I would share exile with her… But I have faith in their compassion and wisdom, if not in their friendship with me, that they would hear my plea, and relent. The only question is whether she would agree to sail.”

“If more time is needed for you to persuade Lómiel to sail, then take it. Mine will not be the last ship, and it will be a number of years ere Círdan himself departs from Ennor and ships are built no longer at Mithlond."

Glorfindel nodded. “It is still my hope to persuade her. But there is another matter I must speak of… Should she reject the west, if the Ringbearer succeeds and peace comes, once you shall depart perhaps she and I might remain here in Imladris. Or go to the Greenwood to live among the Avari. But should the Ringbearer _fail…_ ”

He looked away south again. The sky was grey, and the snow was beginning to fall more heavily.

“Should Frodo fail, Elrond, then you must do one thing for us. I would ride out to join Estel and the Men of the West,” he said calmly, “And we will fight the Shadow with all the strength that remains to us. And I know her. Once she is able, she will come to fight at my side.” The blue eyes fixed Elrond with a penetrating gaze the _peredhel_ was more used to seeing from Galadriel. “But our children, Elrond… Take our children with you to Aman.”

Elrond drew a deep breath, a suspicion that had been forming in his mind now confirmed. “You are expecting… _children? Twins?”_

“Two boys,” said the warrior, with a luminous smile. Having boys more than girls seemed to run in the family, both sides.

“The first elflings to be born here in over eighty _coranári…_ Twins in the time of fading! I am amazed—and delighted.”

“No less than we are, believe me.”

Elrond remembered Gandalf’s words and chuckled. But then he saw how worry contended with joy in his friend’s fair face. “It is wondrous news in dark times! Be of good hope. It is not like you to let your thoughts of the future be so dark.”

“One cannot have children without thinking of their future. You would know that. One plans for the worst, and hopes for the best. But you are right. In my heart of hearts, I do not think the Ringbearer will fail.”

“I understand now why you wish to stay here and not ride forth.”

“Not wish. _Need_. I do not think either of us can imagine how hard this is for the prince of Gondolin. Nothing— _nothing_ could have prepared her for motherhood.” His smile was rueful. “She is by turns happy and resentful, throws me out of the smithy, snarls when I carry heavy loads for her...” He laughed. “Sometimes I imagine what Princess Idril would have to say if she only knew her cousin was carrying my children. It makes me want to both laugh and weep. Can you imagine us meeting your grandmother? I have tried to think of all the different ways that could go, Elrond. None of them have been good.”

“Could her past not be kept a secret in Aman? There are some things it is better none know.”

Glorfindel shook his head. “I do not believe we could keep such a secret from Idril, or Eärendil, or Turgon, or a hundred thousand Gondolindrim. I recognized Lómion the moment our eyes met. Perhaps it was destiny. Perhaps it was true love. But… perhaps it could be that any other who knew him in his first incarnation would also know him in this one. And it is not my nature to lie. We have withheld the truth, but there has been no need for deception in Imladris, since only I in this place know Maeglin Lómion as he once was. But in Eldamar? How could I live so great a deception till the unmaking of Arda? How could I withstand the scrutiny and questions of all who had known us in our first lives? I would rather it were known, and make a plea for understanding and forgiveness, than live a lie. ”

After a moment of deep thought, Elrond said, “When I go ahead of you, this shall I undertake: that when I meet our family on the far shores, I shall speak with them… my father, my grandparents… and I shall do what I may to prepare them. Even if only for your sake and mine first, they would surely welcome Lómiel. Over time, they would see, as I have, that she has been good for you.”

 Gratitude shone in Glorfindel’s face. _“Gi hannon, peredhel._ ” Then he looked hesitant. “Elrond… one more thing.”

 “Yes?”

“Should the worst happen, and you take our children to Aman with you… could you ask Lady Galadriel to bring them to my father?”

In the silence that followed, Elrond stared at his friend. “Is there to be no end to the revelations of this day? Your _father?”_

Glorfindel nodded. “Lady Galadriel knows. Forgive me that I cannot tell you. It is not my secret alone.”

 _“Mellon-iaur,_ you tell me you know who _your_ _father_ is, then in the next breath that you will not tell me?"

“But even he does not know I exist! ’Tis only right that I reveal myself to him first, then submit to his wishes. He might not ever wish it to be known.”

Elrond did his best to kept his face neutral as he understood what Glorfindel’s words implied about his birth. “I understand, _mellon-iaur._ ” There was a pregnant silence for a while, as both gazed to the south. “I have my guesses,” he said after a while.

“You have?”

“Rather obvious ones. I marvel I had not thought of them before.”

“Whatever spells Lady Galadriel wove over me at my birth must have been profound. It may be that you are able to think these thoughts now because I have openly spoken of the matter to you.”

“Eagles of Manwë, I may be thinking of this for the rest of the day.”

The two old friends laughed, then abruptly Glorfindel’s smile faded as though he heard a summons. “Pardon me, Elrond. I must take my leave.” He vaulted out of the west window again and raced over the rooftops, turning briefly only to give his lord a wave of farewell.

Alone with his thoughts, Elrond sat on the stone table and gazed out of the tower to the south. All thought of Glorfindel’s origins quickly faded from his mind, and he was thinking of the nine walkers and their burden as he looked towards Hollin in the south, his grey eyes pensive.

 

As Glorfindel opened the smithy door, letting in a soft flurry of wind and snowflakes, Camaen and Hatheldir greeted him with relief.

“She was fine one moment, then she rushed in there and barricaded the door.”

“I was just going to look for you.”

Glorfindel moved towards the shut workroom door. “ _Melmenya, I am here. Open the door. Please.”_

He was prepared for her to tell him rudely to sod off. Instead, they heard the sound of a table being dragged away. Glorfindel leaned against the door and it opened. He closed it quietly behind him. Maeglin was pacing about the room in her workclothes and her leather apron, weeping.

“Damnation! What is wrong with me?” she said, her voice strangled with misery and resentment as she impatiently brushed away the tears on her face. “I cannot stop crying, like a fool. And _I cannot work!_ What in bloody Arda is happening to me?”

He went to her and wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her, and gently wiped her tears away with a corner of his cloak. As he did, he reached out with his _fëa_ to his children to reassure them, feeling their distress at their mother’s tears.

Even since the day of their children’s begetting, Maeglin had been fragile. If Glorfindel had cherished secret hopes of children in a far future, perhaps one day in Aman, the thought of children had not once crossed Maeglin’s mind. She had woken the next morning hoping it had only been a dream, and the first week or so had seemed surreal. Even as the Fellowship had prepared for departure, and there had been swords to sharpen, and arrowheads to make for Legolas, she had alternated between a state of stunned disbelief, and sudden moments of aching tenderness for the two tiny sparks of life growing in her. Then had come flashes of resentment at the unfairness, a sense of once again being toyed with by a capricious fate.

“Damn it all! I never asked for this!” Just yesterday morning she had appeared luminously happy. Just last night, before he left on patrol, she had seemed calm. “ _They_ never asked for this! Who in their right mind would bring children into a world at war? How can we have children in a time such as this?”

“We do not know when the war will end, _vesseya_. It may be over in months!”

“And on what do you base that empty hope? That our fates are in the hands of _periain_ less than a _ranga_ high who can barely hold a sword, and are walking straight into the lair of Sauron himself? If they even survive that far. If you _dare_ say ‘How hard can it be?’ I swear I am going to kick you in those nuts which got me into this mess.”

Glorfindel fought to smother a smile. “No, I would _not_ say that. But let us hope and believe for the best, _melmenya_. I would like to think Eru Almighty in his wisdom would not have given us children had the world been heading to utter ruin and darkness.”

“That is complete _muk_ , even for you,” she muttered, pulling out of his arms and wearily pushing her hair away from her face. “I wish Eru had kept them.”

“Love, don’t say that!”

“Well, _you_ can have them! Since _you_ are so happy over the whole affair, you can bear them, bring them forth, nurse them, raise them if you will and _leave me out of it!”_

“ _Vesseya!”_ Just when he thought she could say nothing that would shock him anymore... _Amil did not mean that, little ones. Amil’s having a bad day…_ “I know I cannot understand what this is like for you… but I know adjusting to this must be tremendously difficult,” he said soothingly, pulling her back into his arms and stroking her black hair. “Give it time, love. You will be just fine.”

“What do _you_ know?” she snapped, pushing him away. “Spare me your platitudes! You _never_ had this happen to you. You _will_ never have this happen to you. Nothing has really changed for you, Golden Boy of Gondolin, but _everything_ has changed for me. _It stinks to bloody Angband! It is not fair!_ ” Suddenly she swept a worktable clear with one arm, sending tools and pieces of armour flying, and grabbing the mightiest warrior in Ennor by the front of his tunic, shoved him roughly back upon the tabletop, her eyes glinting golden fire.

“Now?” he said, somewhat stunned by her aggression, but also aroused by it.

“Yes. Now,” she growled. And the prince of Gondolin climbed on top of him, and devoured his mouth with a kiss, fiery and deep and fierce.

At least she was not crying any longer, Glorfindel thought, and hoped fervently that for the next hour neither Camaen nor Hatheldir would try opening the workroom door that had no lock.

“Damn it, Flower, stop handling me like I’m made of eggshells. Touch me like you mean it!”

He chuckled. “Yes, my prince,” he said meekly.

 

She was calmer, after that, her anger spent. They sat leaning against the stone wall, her head nestled in the crook of his neck, his arm around her. He folded his cloak and placed it between her back and the cold, hard stone.

“You should really move a couch in here. Or at least some cushions.” He turned his head and kissed her brow tenderly. “And put a latch on that door.” Now that the walls of her rage had fallen, he felt a strange, dark discordance within her _fëa_ , something she was hiding from him. “Something happened,” he said, an edge to his voice. “What is it? Tell me.”

Her voice was flat and hollow and her dark eyes were haunted. “I dreamed of him last night. I dreamed he took the children, and gloated he would do with them as he had done to me.”

Glorfindel’s blood ran cold. He had been away patrolling the borders all night, and when he had returned she had gone early to the smithy. “I would never allow that to happen. Never! He would have to go through me first.”

“That, too, is my fear.” She drew a deep, shuddering breath.

He tightened his arms around her. “It was but a dream, my love. Not a portent.”

With such certainty did he speak that her fear receded, even though her voice was cynical. “As though you could know. Are you speaking with Sight?”

“Deep in my _fëa,_ I know it. This place is safe. Our children will be well, and safe.” He gently tucked some loose strands of silken black hair behind her ear.

“None would rate their chances of survival as high, with me as a parent,” she said bitterly.

“I truly believe you will fare much better than you think.”

“Huh,” she snorted derisively.

“You will. I can see you as a good _Amil_. You love them. I know it, no matter how you rant.”

“Love is not always enough,” she muttered, thinking of her mother. Unreliable, irresponsible, free-spirited Aredhel. She had almost lost baby Maeglin a dozen times in the forest, forgotten to change his diapers till they overflowed, and oft left him to play unsupervised. As he grew older, she had hardly ever disciplined him, allowing him to run wild when he was not being apprenticed in the forge, hiding him from Eöl when he faced punishment for failings in his father’s sight. Yet she had completely, unreservedly adored her son, and he her. It was only now, as Maeglin faced motherhood herself, that she could see her mother’s failings as a parent.

“Love is the most important thing,” said Glorfindel, pulling her to her feet. “And I pledge to take charge of diapers, feeds, and baby baths. I have abundant experience in that.”

“I am sure.” Maeglin thought of a long line of infants stretching from Eärendil down to Arwen.

“You see? All organized and ready. All you need is to be strong and of good cheer for another ten-and-a-half months.”

And as she grimaced and groaned, he bent his head to hers and took her mouth in a deep kiss. After all these years, the familiar taste of him was still as heady as wine, and by Aulë’s hammer, he knew how to kiss…

He gently pulled away and rested his forehead against hers. “We had better go out.” His azure eyes twinkled. “I can sense Camaen and Hatheldir are growing rather anxious.”

“Let them.” Grasping a handful of golden hair, she tugged him back towards the table.

“A couch,” he said, letting her pull him along. “I swear I am going to commandeer a couch from the house.”

 

Maeglin pushed pieces of carrot, potato and lamb around her plate listlessly. Eventually, she gave up the struggle, laid down her fork and sighed.

Glorfindel looked at her anxiously. She had eaten two pieces of fruit and nibbled halfheartedly on a tender piece of stewed bird he had placed on her plate. It had been this way for three weeks now, and already he could see her wrists were thinner, and her beauty was increasingly ethereal and fragile. 

He had asked her several times if there was anything, anything at all that she felt like eating. She had shaken her head. Until finally, reluctantly, on this night, she named a food that they both knew.

“ _Laiqua Arancornë_ …” she sighed under her breath, and Glorfindel’s heart sank.

It was an herb bread that had been served only at Turgon’s table. Glorfindel had not been terribly fond of the bread himself, excellent though it was with certain dishes, for the herbs in it had been a little overpowering to his taste. The prince of Gondolin had not been particularly partial to it either. It had been one of Idril’s favourites, though, and she had craved it when carrying Eärendil.

Glorfindel’s heart sank because the herbs were probably found only in a valley which now lay drowned forever beneath the ocean waves, and both Maeglin and he knew it. Glorfindel had no idea even whether the tiny grain the flour was made from could be found anywhere in Middle Earth now.

Armed only with a clear memory of the taste and texture of the bread, Glorfindel went to the kitchens of Imladris. By now the whole household knew Maeglin was expecting, and her recent lack of appetite had much distressed the chefs, who took great pride in the hundreds if not thousands of years they had spent perfecting their recipes and producing the most exquisite of dishes.

The team of chefs adored Glorfindel. The warrior never returned from his travels without special or exotic ingredients for them from different parts of Middle Earth, and in between his warrior-training sessions, when he dropped by hungry for a snack, he would chat with them as he ate, occasionally washing dishes, chopping ingredients, or carrying in firewood. Thus the chefs took up the challenge he presented most enthusiastically. They listened attentively to his descriptions of the lost Kingsbread of Gondolin. A light, crisp golden crust…a moist, fluffy, slightly chewy crumb…the savoury loaf studded with different types of nut, and redolent with the distinctive fragrance and flavour of herbs native to the valley of Gondolin.

“We shall find substitutes,” said the head chef. He fired off a list of herbs, and one chef went out to gather them from the kitchen gardens.

“My guess is there was a cheese in it,” said one of them.

“The grain was tiny, I believe,” said Glorfindel, wishing he had paid more attention to such things back then. It had been the House of the Tree that had overseen the grain crops. “But it was neither teff, nor amaranth, nor millet.”

“We shall experiment with all,” said one chef heading to the pantries to fetch the grains as another prepared the stone mill for grinding.

And so it was, that as hundreds of leagues away the Company of the Ring was scattered, and armies of Uruk-hai were on the move, the greatest warrior in Ennor sat in a kitchen sampling herbs, nuts, and bread mixes while the Imladrin chefs fussed over him affectionately like mother hens.

Two nights later, when Maeglin polished off the golden loaf set before her together with a large serving of stew, a jubilant Glorfindel bounded into the kitchens and gave each chef, male or female, a big kiss, lifting each of them off the ground in a huge bear hug.

And the chefs, beaming and blushing, basked in the glory of yet another culinary success.

 

The snows began to melt and the days slowly lengthened.  There were no more tears, and fewer mood swings. Maeglin began to wear a luminous glow.

Then came the day when the elves of Imladris turned their heads south, and felt their hearts lift as the Shadow’s power was destroyed, and the spirit of Sauron, of Gorthaur the cruel, dissipated into the harsh winds sweeping over Mordor, never again to take form until the Dagor Dagorath.

Then there were songs of gladness throughout the valley that day, and dancing and a feast of celebration. The following morning, the entire household set into motion preparations long planned, for a journey that would have an end both joyous and bittersweet.

Glorfindel and Maeglin had a quiet evening in their chambers as they packed for the journey. As usual, he packed in ten minutes. He then lay on the bed watching her, observing with a wave of pleasure and tender protectiveness the very noticeable swelling of her belly now showing beneath the skirts of her green dress.

He raised an eyebrow as Maeglin slipped a pouch with smithing tools into her bag. “If you think I am going to let you mend horse shoes on the road,” he said, “you are much mistaken. Let Camaen and Hatheldir do such work.”

“Very well,” she said mildly, to his surprise. “But I will still bring the tools. It would feel strange to be without them.” As she folded a dark blue dress with silver embroidery, she glanced at him and saw his eyes still on her.

“I will be fine. Stop worrying.”

“Do I look worried? Have I said a thing?” he said, smiling.

“I can read your mind. A long journey, the road is hard. I am carrying not one but two of your children. My condition is delicate. Blah blah. Why else did you ask Asfaloth to carry me on the journey instead of you? That he agreed surprises me.”

“On Asfaloth, you will not feel the slightest jolt even on the hardest road. He agreed after choosing another steed for me.”

“I thought you would ride my Gilroch. Who did he choose?”

“Alarcaro.” A black stallion with a white star on his forehead. “Gilroch has agreed to take Lindir and Hatheldir.” Those who barely ever—or had never before—left the valley had no mounts of their own. There would be some sharing of horses necessary, as many of the household took turns to walk and ride.

“I am sure Alarcaro felt honoured.” The other elf-horses had a great deal of reverence for Asfaloth, the shining white horse of Valinor, and for his rider. “I am glad you did not ask me to stay behind with Bilbo.”

“Would you have heeded if I had?”

“No. But it spared us a fight.”

“I know you would not miss this for the world. And truth is, I want you there at my side.” He interrupted her packing, folding his arms around her from behind, resting his chin on her shoulder. “What do you think of having the babies at Lothlórien on the way back?”

“Varda, I am not planning on being away that long!” She laughed, moving out of his embrace to finish her packing.

“It would mean we could travel at leisure, perhaps spend some time with the ents. Should Elrond and the twins decide to spend more time with Arwen in Gondor, we may depart from there only in early autumn. It would be unwise to travel too near to your date. We could spend late autumn and winter in the Golden Woods. You would love it there.” And he wished her to experience its beauty ere the power of Nenya waned.

“I was told an interesting story at dinner,” she said nonchalantly, checking through his bag to see if he had forgotten to pack anything for himself. “Did you take note of a woman large with child in the remnant that escaped from Gondolin?”

“Not really, I was too busy making sure everyone was not killed, and then getting killed myself. Why?”

“She was not of your house. Ecthelion’s. She endured the hard road on foot, with little to eat, hard-pressed with dangers on all sides. In fact, she gave birth on the road to the Mouths of Sirion. And both she and the child were fine.”

He looked at her curiously. “And who told you that?” he asked, wondering who would have unknowingly had such a conversation with the traitor of Gondolin.

“Erestor told me. He was the child.”

“ _Erestor_?”

“Have you known him five thousand years, and never known of his parentage?”

“He never once spoke to me of it. Why does he hate me so then, since I saved his unborn skin?”

“Because you delight in playing such pranks on him. He liked you much better when you were still the dead hero.”

“That is a lie. I have not pranked him since the early Third Age, when peacetime in Imladris grew mindnumbingly boring. I cannot believe he has not gotten over it in three thousand years. The man needs to move on.”

“Not pranked? What do you call the snow drift from the roof that you dropped on his head just after the midwinter feast?”

“An opportunity too good to be missed. There I was, on the roof, and he chose to stand below in the perfect position. Anyway,” he added as he set both their bags by the door, “seeing how Erestor turned out is the strongest argument for our not undertaking the journey home too near your date. It obviously damaged him for life.”

She laughed and kissed him.

“This is home. I want to have our twins here.”

Pleased as he was that she so loved this valley, he felt a pang at the thought that she would resist leaving it.

“As you wish, _vesseya._ ”

They stood at the windows to enjoy the cool of the spring night… the beauty of the gardens, beginning to be lush with new life, the flowers fragrant just below their windows. The roar of the Bruinen beyond the garden terrace, swollen with meltwater, rushing through the ravine and to the south.

Yet already they could feel a subtle difference. In the air. In the earth. Deep in their _fëar_. With the unmaking of the One Ring, the power of Elrond’s ring Vilya was passing away. Slowly, ever so slowly, time and mortality would begin to steal into the beloved valley.

Among the rose bushes beginning to bud, they saw Elrond and Arwen, walking slowly together, heads close as they spoke under the starlight. The Evenstar lingered at her favourite spots, reaching out a hand to say farewell to a particularly beloved tree.

Glorfindel and Maeglin followed father and daughter with their eyes, till they rounded a bend in the path and vanished.

Ahead of Arwen, the joys of a bride, the glories of a crown, the shadow of mortality, the sundering from kin. Beginnings and endings, joys and sorrows, blending together in the cool spring night.

Glorfindel saw sadness haunting Maeglin’s eyes. He did not entirely understand why, nor did she. It had something to do with Arwen’s choice and Elrond’s loss, certainly… the tragedy of parting from a loved one. But it was also the first time Maeglin found herself affected as she contemplated the mortality of the Secondborn.

Maeglin had never liked the Secondborn, and her orc-hunts with Glorfindel or the twins in the company of the Dúnedain had not entirely erased her disdain. “ _The frequency with which they need to rest, to eat, to answer the call of nature,”_ she had once said to Glorfindel, watching the Rangers as they ate dinner and huddled around the fire somewhere high in the Hithaeglir. _“Had it been just us, we would have travelled at twice the speed, and needed a quarter of the rations. And by Manwë’s nose, why do they stink so badly? Faugh! We have journeyed and gone without washing just as long as they.”_

But now, thinking of Arwen and Estel—the only one of the Secondborn whom she did love, and whose smell did not repel her—Maeglin was struck by the sadness of how transient the ties between the children of Ilúvatar could be… how fleeting the bonds one had with mortals, whether of friendship or love, as time flew by on swift wings in these mortal lands.

“We will not sail with Elrond,” her Firstborn love said gently. “Elladan and Elrohir shall remain here, for a season of time... for as long as Estel reigns as king. And so shall I, for as long as the elven line of Turukáno abides in Endórë.”

She laid a hand on her swollen belly as she glanced at him, her heart full. “That is good, _vennoya,”_ she said at last. Then suddenly, she clung to him tightly, and he, who had said farewell countless times to countless shortlived mortals, could only hold on to her, somewhat baffled. When she finally released him, she kissed him more gently than she was wont to, then gave him a smile that could only be described as sweet and tender and wifely.

As she turned away from the windows and headed towards their bed, he stared after her, completely dumbfounded.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Periain (S) – halflings/hobbits (plural)

Mellon-iaur (S) – old friend

Perelda (Q) – half-elven 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A busy week and a rushed chapter, I'm afraid. Sorry for the rough bits! 
> 
> The whole issue of why Glorfindel was not one of the Fellowship of the Ring is of course very old stuff and has been debated at length by the fandom. I’ve thrown in some of the reasons here with no memory of where I got them from, but not much of it is from my own noggin.
> 
> Decided not to give Maeglin morning sickness as that seemed a little cliché… not everyone gets it, anyway (I had very little of it). Could not resist giving her cravings for something found only in Gondolin.


	26. Birth

“One of the worst things about being with child is that _every other_ _nís_ who has _ever_ been with child has advice to dispense. Or a tale of childbirth to tell.”

Maeglin scowled darkly. She had been flanked by well-meaning elven matrons from both Imladris and Lothlórien for much of the ride to Minas Tirith, since Glorfindel rode at the front or the rear with his guard. “Why would _anyone_ imagine I need a blow-by-blow account of sixty-four hours of labour?”

“ _Nai!_ the agony!” Glorfindel winced at the thought as he braided pearls and white crystals into Maeglin’s hair. For the first time he felt a twinge of anxiety about the coming birth. After witnessing thousands of joyous and uneventful births, thought the father-to-be, why should a handful of horrific incidents truly stand out now that his beloved’s turn drew near?

“The most beautiful and transcendental experience of her life, apparently. In between the screaming and her husband fainting,” Maeglin added drily.

Glorfindel chuckled. “Elrond almost fainted too, when Celebrían was giving birth to the twins.”

“He did?” It was hard to imagine. She smiled a little too wickedly.

“Sympathetic pain.”

“The solution to the pain, as another matron told me, is apparently meditation and heated poultices,” said Maeglin wryly. “She has kindly offered to share meditation techniques with me whilst we are in Gondor.”

“I hope your reply was not too rude. They all mean well, _melmenya_ , and are genuinely concerned and eager to help.”

“I know. But after suffering through ten hours of childbirth advice and tales, I was sorely tempted to tell her to go to Mordor with her meditation in my sweetest voice. Lady Galadriel caught my eye in time.” She shifted her weight in her chair.

It was only her seventh month, but twins made her larger than she would have been for a first child, and it was further becoming apparent that neither of them were small babies, being of the House of Finwë. Thankfully, the fastenings and lacing of her midnight-blue gown had plenty of allowance, and Glorfindel admired how the silk hugged the curve of her now-full bosom and gently skimmed the swell of her belly.

He could tell she was tired. They had ridden and walked long hours for many days, and rested but little since their arrival at the City of Kings yesterday, on Midsummer’s Eve.

“Close your eyes and rest, _melmenya_. I shall be done in a few minutes.” He continued to weave in fine, slender chains of silver and pearls and crystals into her dark tresses. “Your hair is so much thicker and glossier than it even was before,” he said appreciatively.

She was amused by how much he enjoyed playing with her long, silky black locks. She seldom allowed him to braid her hair, and he appeared to be relishing each moment of the present. The wall mirror was set too high, such that she could not see herself in it, only him, tall and shimmering white and gold in the lamplight. The guest room in the citadel had plain sandstone walls and floors. A faded mural of a forlorn Tar-Palantir gazing towards Avallonë from the hill of Oromet was painted over the heavy mahogany bed.

“I hope you are not overdoing it,” she said, shifting slightly in the chair again. “Nothing elaborate, nothing like Ecthelion’s, please.”

“Worry not. You will look far lovelier than Ecthelion ever did, I promise.” He flashed a dazzling grin. “Just do not ever tell him I said so.”

Maeglin leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, feeling his skilled fingers moving swiftly yet unhurriedly through her hair, listening to him whistling softly as he worked. He himself never needed any help with braiding. He had a dozen different ways of styling his own famed golden tresses, and he executed each of these with such speed and perfection that it had never made any sense for her to offer him any help, even if she were disposed to.

She opened her eyes again. Lovingly watching him in the oval mirror mounted on the wall, she reflected that her beloved, for all his radiant beauty, was less vain than other Lords of Gondolin. Ecthelion had worn diamonds set in silver in his beautiful dark hair, Rog loved red rubies, Egalmoth opals, Penlod pearls, and Galdor had flaunted emeralds as green as his flashing eyes in his fiery tresses. But Glorfindel needed no adornment for his golden head, for the glory of his hair alone was enough. Thus he rarely had added jewels to his braids except during feasts and festivals, although he had been showered with gifts of sapphires to match his blue eyes. Today, all he had chosen to wear, pinned on his white robe, was the golden brooch shaped like a flower, its eight petals like the rays of the sun, which Maeglin had given him. That, and his gold wedding ring.

Maeglin herself, when she had been the prince of Gondolin, had preferred to wear plain black with a touch of silver embroidery. Accessories were minimal. A single silver earring. A plain silver brooch in a cloak or robe. A solitaire diamond.

“Tasteful, elegant, understated,” she reminded him in a murmur as he worked.

“Right, right. Trust me. Stop fidgeting,” he said mildly, smiling in amusement.

“Hurry, it is almost time,” she said, shifting in the chair again, as the babies started to kick restlessly.

“Such impatience, the three of you.” He extended a hand to pull her up from her seat, and with a flourish, showed her his finished handiwork in a hand mirror.

The master crafter of Gondolin and Imladris scrutinized herself in the looking glasses on the wall and in his hand, angling herself to see the back of her head. Glorfindel smiled. Not a word was needed. The expression of approval on her lovely face said it all—his work had met her high standards, and surpassed them. He laid down the hand mirror on a table, and offered his lady his arm.

She laid her hand on his arm, took three steps forward and halted with a groan. _“Orro!_ I need the privy again.” Only very recently had this embarrassment begun.

With a look of profound sympathy, Glorfindel drew the chamberpot out from under the bed and passed it to her.

“Balls of Tulkas,” she scowled as she took it. “Six thousand years of civilization in Númenórë and Endórë, and they have not yet invented plumbing and sanitation? It is perfectly barbaric!”

“I am sure Estel will do something about it, _melmenya_.” Arwen would of a certainty see to it, for she was far more delicate in her sensibilities than Maeglin.

“However did he survive among these barbarians?” she grumbled as Glorfindel poured water from a jug into a basin for her use later.

“With a great deal of love and forbearance. They are his people.” Considering that Maeglin had grown up in Nan Elmoth, survived the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and month-long war games with several thousand warriors in the great outdoors, and had just endured long weeks of travel through open terrain, it amused Glorfindel how dainty his prince was now behaving. It seemed to him that Maeglin was determined to like little about this city of the Secondborn.

When finally they arrived at the embrasure of the Citadel together, they found all the Imladrim and Galadhrim waiting in the starlight, looking towards where the sky was lightening in the east.

“Ah, the Two Trees are finally here,” said Erestor, as the couple arrived and took their place next to Elrond and his family.

“Sshh… the vigil begins,” said Lindir.

And all the elves stood in silent stillness to await Arien as she ascended bearing Anor, the last fruit of Laurelin the golden.

The Two Trees had been Arwen’s handiwork. She had given, as her wedding gift, a white robe for Glorfindel and a midnight-blue dress for Maeglin. Embroidered down the side of the white robe was a gracefully spreading golden tree, and down the side of the deep blue gown was a beautiful, shimmering silver tree, and small silver flowers on the sleeves.

“Laurelin and Telperion.” Maeglin had eyed Glorfindel a little dubiously as she took the gifts out of the gossamer-like tissue they were wrapped in. “Would you wear this?”

In the First Age, the Two Trees of Valinor and their light had been held in great reverence. Maeglin would have imagined that Glorfindel, brought up by half-Vanyarin Idril, might have been raised with the idea that it was almost sacrilegious to wear them on one’s clothing.

“It has been seven thousand years since the Years of the Trees, _meldanya_ ,” Glorfindel had said with a smile. “I would definitely wear this in the Third Age. And I do not think even Itarillë would have objected in the First.”

So their friends had enjoyed the sight of the couple in their new finery a month later as the household gathered for the Gates of Summer vigil.

“ _Alae!_ The Two Trees!” Erestor had proclaimed at once.

“ _Calan a dhû!”_

_“Anor ar Isil!”_

“Light and dark. _Maer!”_ laughed Gildor, who had arrived too late for the wedding but stayed on for Tarnin Austa.

“Lady Arwen, you have outdone yourself,” said Lindir, admiring the embroidery.

“Uhh… is it not the golden tree Laurelin that is female, and the silver tree Telperion male?” observed Elrohir with an arched eyebrow.

“There are ways in which that seems rather fitting, actually,” said the quieter twin, Elladan, looking at the bright and dark pair with a twinkle in his amused grey eyes.

“ _Bain!_ They look beautiful,” declared Arwen with satisfaction, her grey eyes sparkling as she examined Glorfindel and Maeglin dressed in her labour of love.

Oblivious to everyone around, the two lovers were holding hands and talking with their heads close to each other, indeed looking like day and night, sun and moon, as they stood side by side.

When Glorfindel and Maeglin showed up at the festival of the Fading of the Year wearing something else, they had endured more comments.

“ _Nae!_ What happened to the Two Trees?”

“Did Ungoliant get to them already?”

“By the Valar! We demand the Two Trees!”

All of which Glorfindel and Maeglin had blithely ignored.

But this morning they were wearing the Two Trees for Arwen. She gave them a smile as she stood beside her father and brothers above the city she would reign over as Queen. It was for her the last Tarnin Austa dawn ceremony of her soon-to-be mortal life.

The city of Minas Tirith, capital of Gondor, lay spread below the elves. The elven travellers had arrived just the evening before the wedding day, on the shortest night of the year, and had shortened their Midsummer vigil to the half-hour before dawn.

The air was cool. The city lay dark and silent. The elves stood shimmering in the dim pre-dawn light, gazing eastwards. East, over lands once shadowed, now free.

As the first rays broke over the horizon, two hundred fair elven voices lifted in the ancient chorus. Below, those of the people of Gondor who were already in the streets lifted their heads to gaze upwards, or opened windows to look and listen in wonder.

On the embrasure of the Citadel the fair folk stood, shining bright in the sunlight in raiment of many hues. Their voices rose and fell in the morning air, each note carrying clear and heartbreakingly haunting over the city, weaving a deep spell of enchantment over all who heard. The ears that heard that song would recall it ever after, and speak of it to their children and children’s children—the morning of the royal wedding of King Elessar, when the Queen and her people sang over the city and blessed it, before their race passed away beyond the west.

Glorfindel glanced at Maeglin as they sang together, and saw her black eyes free of shadow for the moment as the sun fell golden and warm on her face. Each Midsummer marked another year they had been together. And each year his heart rejoiced to see in her face the freedom she was winning from her past. 

She returned his glance briefly, and smiled.

He turned his own face back to the east, his face radiant as the sunrise as he sang.

 

In the end, he changed their travel plan on the way home from Minas Tirith.

“It is not a question of your endurance, _meldanya_ ,” Glorfindel said, massaging the sore muscles in her lower back at a rest-stop. “I have not the slightest doubt that if you had to travel north to Fornost and back on foot, you would. It is the _needlessness_ of this suffering. Did you know both Itarillë and Celebrían spent most of the last few months of their pregnancies sleeping and relaxing, and being waited on hand and foot?”

“I am neither Itarillë nor Celebrían,” she said stubbornly, but she was looking drained.

He sighed. “Listen. I have seen enough _nissi_ go through this to know how much of their strength is drawn out of them, even with just one child, let alone two. And the father can only do so much to help. Why should you have to suffer long days in the saddle, even if it is on Asfaloth? It is so unnecessary.”

He folded his arms around her for a while and let his light and strength flow through her and the children.

“Our sons are of the line of Finwë and have strong _fëar_. They demand a great deal of our lifeforce in their making.” He released her gently. “We may have children only this one time, _melimë_. Can we not simply relax and find pleasure in it? And not one word about Erestor’s mother. He was not twins, and we can be grateful for small mercies that he was not. Neither are we fleeing for our lives. I want us to have this time to enjoy and to remember.”

The one day they had spent at Lothlórien in early summer on their journey to Gondor glowed in memory, an oasis of rest and peace. Maeglin thought of breezes sighing through trees of gold and the singing waters of the Celebrant. “Very well.”

And thus it was that when the travellers parted ways on their journey, Glorfindel and Maeglin bade fond farewell to Elrond and his household who would head north to Imladris, and turned their horses aside to follow the Galadhrim home.

There was a peace and enchantment still over the Golden Woods, even as the power of Nenya slowly diminished. Glorfindel and Maeglin walked over lush, green grass and under the shimmering branches of golden mellyrn. For an age after all the elvenfolk had departed, the mellyrn here would remain golden-leaved in winter, for the life of Valinor in its sap depended not solely on Nenya’s strength.

“ _Ai!_ There they go—fighting again,” Maeglin said, placing a hand under her swollen belly.

“They are playing,” said Glorfindel, watching her midriff bounce and shift in shape. It never failed to fascinate him.

“Fighting,” she sighed. “What did we expect? They are the children of warriors, and they are having a war in me.”

Glorfindel leaned over, patted the baby bump, and sent out a firm command. _“Na manë! Behave, boys!”_

And the violent kicking subsided to gentler movements.

They looked at each other in surprise and amusement. “Well, looks like they just need a telling off if they get too rowdy!” said Glorfindel with a laugh.

“If they are that obedient, they take after you rather than me.” Maeglin smiled as they resumed their walk.

All her life had been devoted to craft, the creation of things beautiful and deadly, useful and clever. Only over the last few months had this bearing of children grown into an extension of that, as she felt nature turn her into a vessel for the creation of life.

She had initially detested the sensation of being helpless, and at the mercy of forces beyond her comprehension or control. And Glorfindel had initially made it worse.

“Heartbeats!” Glorfindel had exclaimed suddenly one morning at the end of winter as they were getting dressed. His face was incandescent with wonder. “Did you feel that? Their hearts are beating!”

It had been another five days before she became tuned in enough to the children to sense it. She had experienced a deep pang of jealousy and resentment that he had sensed it so much more sharply than she, so much earlier, and had a special connection with their sons. More than that, it had made her feel almost a stranger in her own body, and that the babies were intruders.

Sometime after that, they had been lying in bed one night, drifting off to sleep, when he had murmured drowsily, “Amazing... they are swimming round and round. Look at that… they have their tiny fingers and toes already…”

And with that he had fallen sleep against the curve of her back. Leaving her wide-eyed and sleepless in the dark, staring at the intricately carved wooden panelling of the wall.

After that, she had gone quietly to the library and Idhren, with a wise and gentle smile, had found her a book. It had gotten better from there.

The book, co-authored by Tercenalto and Nilmië, a Noldorin couple of Tirion, offered both the meticulous clinical detail of scientific observation and the first-hand wonder of new parents. It gave her, at least, the assurance that she was normal, and that it was Glorfindel who was not. Where his heightened senses came from, whether his years in Valinor dwelling with the Valar, or his father’s blood, she did not know, but it was comforting to discover that she was no worse and no different from innumerable _ellith_ who had undergone this before her. It armed her as well with an understanding of the entire process of gestation… details which Pengolodh’s biology lessons had naturally glossed over as being irrelevant to the needs of a prince and the kingdom he was being schooled to run.

As Glorfindel had joyously announced the next few developmental milestones, always a few days ahead of her feeling them herself, she had at least been prepared, able to anticipate each of them. And her fascination with the invisible creative process happening within her had been stirred.

During their first stopover in Lothlórien, as Glorfindel and she had walked upon Cerin Amroth, she had suddenly halted in her tracks with the strangest look on her face.

“I think… I think that was a kick.”

With a luminous look both tender and wistful, Glorfindel reached out a hand and gently laid it against her belly. He had sensed the kick in his _fëa_ , but only she would be able to experience it as part of her own _hröa_. And suddenly she understood, without his saying a word, how much he both worshipped and envied her for the privilege of bearing life within her.

As she grew more greatly in tune with the children as they developed, she and Glorfindel celebrated the milestones of their growth together. She began to feel differently: a partner with the forces shaping life in her womb, and not merely a vessel, as the children fed on the strength of both her _fëa_ and _hröa_.

She obediently ate the foods prepared for her by the Galadhrim, rested more than she had in all her two lives, and took long walks under the golden-leaved trees at the side of her golden-haired love. She even forced down the herbal tonics brewed by the Galadhrin healers, not even daring to scowl since it was under Galadriel’s eye. Her sense of well-being grew with each passing day. She hardly recognized herself anymore on some of those days, for she felt whole, and full of life.

Her nights of sleep grew rather fitful, as autumn turned to winter, for the twins enjoyed nocturnal acrobatics.

The night she found she could not turn in bed because of their weight, she had lain there like a beached whale seething in such resentful frustration that her mood had woken Glorfindel up. He had matter-of-factly turned her over, propped her with pillows, given her a sleepy kiss and murmured, “Wake me whenever you need me.” Then gone back to sleep.

For a long moment on the darkened _talan_ , she did not know which she wanted more… to  hit him with a pillow, resentful of his sleep, or kiss him lovingly, grateful for his care.

Some nights, as the twins turned somersaults, she listened to the breeze in the mellyrn branches and Glorfindel’s slow, deep breathing. Her long black eyes gazed drowsily at the dark forest shadows dancing across the woven screens of the flet, and saw scenes of her life playing across them…

And it seemed surreal to her to think she had ever been that dark _ellon_. She tried to remember what it had been like to live in his body. Tall… broad, muscled shoulders… narrow hips… a long, lithe, feline stride. What it had been like to _be_ him. She tried in vain to stir the cold ashes of his hatred for his Adar, his craving for the crown, his lust for his cousin, his hatred for Glorfindel, for Tuor… all whose happiness did naught but reveal to him his lack.

And as his face gazed back at her in the night, black eyes cold and mocking and guarded, lips curled with half a smirk, half a scowl, she felt as though she looked on someone else.

At other times Maeglin Lómion blurred into Eöl of Nan Elmoth.

 _“You have nothing to do with me,”_ her father and her past-self sneered down at her, with disdain for her womanhood. _“You are weak and soft. You have no part of me.”_

 _“You had a gift for hatred,”_ she found herself replying. _“And what you hated most was yourself… Everything you held as strength was your weakness…and the things you held as weakness are now my strength._ ” What Lómion hated in his father he had only become himself. Her sleep-heavy _fëa_ felt a strange detachment of pity for both of them.…

Glorfindel turned over in bed and looked at her in sleepy bemusement. “ _Melimë_ … are you talking to yourself?”

The shades faded and happiness spread wings in her heart as she smiled at him with love. “I need to be turned again.”

During the day, she walked as much as she was able, and napped whenever she could, sleeping on the flower-starred grasses with her head in Glorfindel’s lap. And he would sing various lays and songs to her and the children.

One afternoon, as they rested in a quiet glade just outside Caras Galadhon, his thoughts wandered to Gondolin. Indeed, as they looked up at the leaves of gold and the tall mellyrn about them, they could almost imagine they were in Gondolin again.

His voice rose melodiously in the cool autumn air, carrying on the breeze, so that some of the Galadhrim passing through the nearby trees saw visions of the high towers and the hundred courtyards in the sunlight, the busy marketplace, the King’s Square, the proud lords in shining raiment riding on their steeds, the fair ladies walking on the white city walls, the colourful heraldic banners streaming in the wind, the lush green gardens with fair blossoming trees, and the silver fountains flowing. And encircling and protecting all, majestic high peaks crowned with dazzling snow, cradling within them an emerald-green valley of waterfalls and flower-filled meadows, over which the great eagles watched.

His voice fell silent. The twins had fallen asleep.

Maeglin, lying in his lap, curled on her side with a cushion under her belly to support its weight, said quietly, “I still miss it sometimes.”

He was silent as he combed his fingers through her dark hair. Even after all these years, it would have sounded accusing to say, “So do I.”

“They must never know,” she said. “Never.”

His fair brow furrowed. He had been thinking about it as well. If there was any way they could ever tell their sons. Tell them their mother had once been a prince who unlawfully desired his cousin, betrayed a city, and cost the lives of a hundred thousand.

He could tell his sons about Vinyamar and his childhood by the sea. He could tell them all the glorious tales of Gondolin and his life there, and how he slew the mightiest of balrogs. But their mother’s story would have to begin on a rainy night near Imladris, when she woke up in dark woods, pursued by wargs.

He was angry how cruel history had been to Maeglin. If ever they went to Valinor, Glorfindel thought grimly, he was going to have a long talk with his old friend Pengolodh the loremaster and insist on a rewrite of some passages in the annals of the fall of Gondolin.

 “I will tell them of the Lords of Gondolin,” said Glorfindel. “And how one of them was Lómion, the proud Lord of the Mole. I will tell them that he was fearless in battle, and the finest craftsman outside of the House of Fëanáro. I will tell them how he commanded the undying loyalty of his House and his warriors, and that his words were few but wise. I will tell them that he built the seventh and finest gate of Ondolindë.”

“And allied himself with Moringotto and destroyed the fairest city in Beleriand and died a villain’s death. There is no way of sugar-coating that part, my love.”

“I will tell them how tragic a life he had, to have suffered much so young, and been so little understood in a life so short. He did not choose whom he loved. He never had a real chance at happiness in life.”

“Do not be too kind to me. I made choices,” she said calmly. “I chose to dissuade Turukáno from obeying Ulmo, though I knew Tuor spoke true. I chose to go out that day into the mountains to find new ores, when Turukáno forbade all to leave the city. I chose that fork in the mountain paths that led to an orc ambush. They will need to hear all that too.”

She paused.

“And it is true. I broke in Angband. I sold my city for my cousin. My desires were dark, and used against me. I was Sauron’s puppet because I gave the strings into his hand. You cannot rewrite history for my sake.”

“I love you so much.”

There was such a note of intensity in his voice that she looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were dark blue with emotion, helpless and angry at the ineluctable facts of history.

“You have strange taste in lovers, Lord of the Golden Flower,” she said with a wry smile, then shifted restlessly. The weight of the twins made it uncomfortable to stay in one position for too long.

“I have been blessed in love, my Lord of the Mole.” He helped her to sit up and kissed her.

“Blessed? _Ui_ , you poor, deluded soul,” she murmured and smiled, before carefully shifting her weight and lying again in his lap on her other side, burying her face against his tunic, and falling asleep.

Glorfindel gently arranged the cushion under her belly to support it, and gazed down at her with soft eyes as she slept in his lap.

A single tear trickled down his cheek. He brushed it angrily away.

 

 _“_ That was a _huge_ one! Hold on, love. We are almost there!”

Which was what he had said eight hours earlier.

“Will you just _shut up_ with the commentary, Flower?”

So he massaged her back gently and softly hummed a lilting, soothing melody.

Then the next one hit…

“ _Ai!_ This one is even bigger. You are doing marvellously, _melimë._ They are so much _closer_ now. That’s it—give a good push—it should not be much longer—”

“Shut up. I warn you—I have never felt more like castrating you than I do now.”

“Sorry,” he said contritely. But he was smiling as he gently wiped her brow and kissed it.

And then came the next three in succession…

Good as gold, he kept silent through it all, let her crush his hand, and channelled the strength of his _fëa_ into her to sustain her, as he had throughout the past few days. But finally, he could take it no longer.

“ _Melmenya_ ,” he said. “Please stop being such a proud prince, and just scream. You are unnerving the midwife with your silence. There is nothing wrong with screaming.”

“I have been in Angband. This is nothing.”

But when the next contraction hit her, her knuckles turned white and she clenched Glorfindel’s hand with a grip that would have fractured the bones of anyone less than the mighty warrior…

She panted and glowered ferociously at him as it tapered off.

“You balrog-slaying bastard. You did this to me.”

An eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. “Oh? I recall no protests from my lady as I ravished her.”

That earned him an expletive so colourful that Glorfindel glanced nervously at the Silvan midwife kneeling across from him on the platform of the flet. The green-eyed _elleth_ was looking a little bored, for with Glorfindel there, she had so far had next to nothing to do. He was relieved to see from her bland countenance that she understood no Quenya.

And he saw, standing at the opening in the woven screens of the _talan_ , the Lady Galadriel laughing quietly, greatly amused.

 

Maeglin gazed at their two sons lying asleep between them. “Well,” she said with a smile, “Absolutely no doubt as to paternity here.”

Gleaming on one tiny head was the rich, bright gold hair of Finarfin’s house.

The other shone with fine wisps of pale white-gold hair.

The first grey-eyed babe slept peacefully. His brother, restlessly pushing and kicking his tiny limbs against the swaddling, resenting restraint, had eyes of blue.

Finrod and Rîlel’s bloodlines had asserted themselves. Galadriel and Celeborn gazed with radiant and soft faces upon the two infants, and smiled at each other as they remembered another time and another birth, thousands of years past.

Then all visitors and the midwife departed from the _talan_ to give the new family some time to themselves. Glorfindel lay on his side, looking at the two tiny heads, his heart overflowing with love and joy.

He had, however, one disappointment. He had been hoping for one dark and one golden head. “The line of Nolofinwë needs another chance,” he said jokingly. “Let’s get started straight away.”

“Go ahead if you wish. I’ll be with you in a _yén_ ,” she said drowsily. She had been in intense labour for forty-one hours, and had been complimented by the midwife as most elven deliveries took over forty-eight.

The golden morning sun was now pouring in a warm gentle haze over their bed through a gap in the screens, even though it was midwinter.

“Names,” said Glorfindel to Maeglin. “This is Arinnáro,” he touched the cheek of Bright-gold Hair who was still asleep, his hair radiant as his father’s as it caught the morning light. “And this is Arman.” He held the tiny hand of White-gold Hair, who had managed to loosen the swaddling cloth and was now gurgling happily and punching the air with his tiny fists.

“Yes,” she murmured. “That suits.”

She held the other tiny fist and examined it, marvelling at the intricate workmanship of each finger and nail. Her eyes scrutinized the details of eyelashes, golden and dark, at the softness of velvet skin, and knew that nothing that had ever left her forges in Gondolin or Imladris could ever compare with this great work.

Mother-names could come much later, if at all, she thought, and yawned.

When the Galadhrin midwife next peeked into the _talan_ , both parents and babies were fast asleep.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Orro (Q) – exclamation of dismay/disgust/horror

Alae (S) – behold/look there

Calan a dhû (S) – day and night

Anor ar Isil (S) – sun and moon

Maer (S) – good (here, with the meaning “nice/well done/splendid”)

Bain (S) – beautiful

Nae (S) – alas

Na manë (Q) – be good (imperative – behave yourself)

Melimë (Q) – darling/beloved

Ui (Q) – No / It is not so

Arinnáro (Q) – fire of the morning

Arman (Q) – ray of sunlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Noldor and their bling! Tolkien’s idea, of course, not mine.  
> 2\. When I first wrote this chapter, I was quite clear that elves are much lighter than mortals and also much stronger, hence I imagined Maeglin would be agile and active for the duration of the pregnancy, regardless of bearing twins—all the more since she is a strong warrior and a smith. Unfortunately, as I rewrote this, I kept thinking of a couple we know who had twins. He is the sweetest dude on the planet, and she’s a bit of a princess, so yup, in the last months of her pregnancy he was turning her in bed several times each night. And once I found myself writing that bit about Maeglin in bed like a beached whale (this would have been in the last week of her pregnancy, I dare say), it tickled me so much I didn’t delete it. So—did I do wrong? Is it not credible? Would like to know your thoughts!  
> Two little relevant bits of elven-baby canon from Morgoth’s Ring:  
> 3\. It says “the Eldar would beget children only in days of happiness and peace if they could”. My take on canon is that (1) they do not have control over conception any more than mortals, and (2) elf children could be conceived in times of darkness and war though it seldom happened.  
> 4\. What I drew on most for this chapter is this: “in the begetting, and still more in the bearing of children, greater share and strength of their being, in mind and in body, goes forth than in the making of mortal children.” And this is one of the reasons they had so few children, and only in the earlier part of their marriage (though as immortals, this would naturally extend over several centuries).  
> 5\. Many thanks to EbonyKitty552, who advised on grammar and Quenya names when I was writing the first version. I owe Arinnáro’s name (and its shortened form, Aryo) to her. The original was “Arinner”, I think, and my intended meaning had been “man of the morning”. "Arman" was originally "Armon", and I was happy when she advised that the former was better.


	27. Meetings Beyond the Sea

He had eyes for no other, as he disembarked from the white ship. As the ship drew near the shore, he saw her running, light and fleet of foot as she had been when he first saw her in Ost-in-Edhil… he saw her waiting on the wharf, shimmering in the light of the sunset sky, its glow illuminating her silver hair with soft-rose hues, lovelier even than he remembered. As he walked down from the ship, he saw in her iridescent grey eyes the wholeness and healing he had failed to give her. And she, gazing into his eyes, saw all the burden he had carried in the mortal lands. Saw his story of the recent joy and loss common to them both. And tears trembled in her eyes even as she smiled.

They stood on the dock folded in each other’s arms for an eternity, as others milled around them in other meetings. They had never had great need for spoken words, and stood lost in the meeting of their minds.

Even from afar, as he had stood on the ship’s deck and seen the clouds part and the far green land on the horizon, his thoughts had gone forth seeking her, and heard her reply.

 _“At last_ ,” he had heard her say in his mind. “ _At last you are here. I have waited for you each day… meleth e-gûren, love of my heart...”_

Now, he felt her at last real and warm in his arms as he had dreamed so many years.

Then, he heard her speak once again. “ _Come, my heart. There are two I have brought here whom you must meet.”_

Elrond reluctantly lifted his head from his wife’s silver hair, and saw a lady with dark hair and sea-grey eyes gazing at him, so like Arwen in appearance that he had no doubt who she was. Dim memories from infancy conjured her face. He did not need to ask for his father. Already in the twilit skies above he saw the silmaril-star sailing. Elwing stepped forward with tears flowing down her cheeks, who had lost two sons six thousand years ago, and now received back one. 

And behind Elwing, a lady with radiant, flowing hair of light, pure gold. Glittering grey eyes scanning the crowd, searching, he knew, for a tall warrior, for deeper golden hair and a beloved face, to find only the Lady Galadriel folding her much-missed daughter in her arms.

Elrond braced himself, and hand-in-hand with his mother, walked forward to meet his father’s mother.

 

From the terrace of his new home, Elrond looked down onto the myriad twinkling golden lights of the buildings of Tol Eressëa that stretched below.

He looked up at the fiery stars above. Constellations familiar yet different, burning larger and brighter than in the mortal lands, seeming so much closer to earth. His father’s star could no longer be seen in the sky.

In the gardens below, he lovingly watched Celebrían walk arm-in-arm with her mother, deep in talk. He himself would be visiting his long-lost parents when daylight came, and his mother had just departed to make preparations for a feast.

He looked behind him and was not surprised to see his father’s mother approach. At the harbour, he had but told her that Glorfindel had chosen to remain in Ennor for a while. He had briefly glimpsed the stricken look in her eyes before Celebrían swept them all to her home. As they dined, the haunting sea-songs of the Teleri rose and fell in the twilight, wafting through the window on sea breezes. Elrond and Galadriel had spent much of the evening speaking to Elwing and Celebrían, while Idril listened attentively but said little.

“ _Haruni_ Itarillë, will you sit here with me?” he said in Quenya, pouring her some wine.

She sat next to him on the couch with her noble head proud and lovely on the slender column of her white neck, shimmering in the night, her fair, bright golden hair flowing over her shoulder down to the floor. The lovely face for which a city had fallen was still looking slightly dejected.

“I am sorry for your disappointment, _Haruni,_ ” he said as he handed her a goblet, “But Laurefindel will remain with my sons until they, too, come to Aman.” He chose his words carefully.

Idril smiled. “ _Hara máriessë,_ ” she said, raising her goblet in a toast to him.

 _“Hara máriessë,_ ” Elrond responded with a smile, raising his own.

“May our sons join us soon.” She took a dainty sip. “After five thousand years, what is a little more waiting?”

“Indeed,” said Elrond, feeling a little uneasy.

For he knew that his grandparents had not received the singular grace enjoyed by Beren and Lúthien Tinúviel. In Aman, Tuor had been granted the boon of a life long beyond that of any other man before him. Then he had willingly embraced the Gift of Men and peacefully passed beyond the Circle of Arda, with his family at his side… Idril, Eärendil and his wife, and Glorfindel, who had been as a brother to him.

Elrond remembered what Glorfindel had told him. Idril had been long prepared for that parting, for had she not given her heart to Tuor knowing full well that their days were numbered? And Eru and the Valar had blessed her in this: that she had enjoyed more than tenfold the fifty years she had thought they would have together, and that to the last he had been hale, and whole, and happy… but increasingly restless and ready for that final voyage to a world that beckoned to him beyond the veil. Naturally, she had grieved, and sought healing for her loss in the gardens of Estë. They would meet again only at the Second Music, and a hint of sadness lurked in her bright eyes. Would Elrond have wished such a fate on Arwen, for the price of her immortality? Better, Elrond thought, to be severed from her parents and brothers but eternally united with the one she loved through the Gift of Men.

Over dinner, Elrond had learned that Idril now spent part of her time with her parents at Alcarinos, as New Gondolin was called, and part of her time with her grandparents in Tirion or in Valmar. But most of her time was devoted to Eärendil, and Elwing who was as a daughter to her. It was clear enough to Elrond that her love and life now centred chiefly on her sons. Elrond wondered if he should prepare her for the fact that her foster son might never return. Or when it might be suitable to break the news that her beloved boy had married the enemy of her family. He would have to tread carefully. He had no wish to give her false hope, or mislead her. But neither did he wish to add to her sorrow.

“You have been with Laurefindil five millennia… far, far longer than he has ever spent with me.” She smiled at the realization. “Tell me how he does.”

“He is well. He has ever been the most skilled of warriors and a great commander of warriors, and he has done mighty deeds in battle against the Shadow.”

Her face lit in a proud smile. “I expected no less. Has he changed in any way?”

“He has carried the burden of the years lightly. When we parted, he was as joyous and young of spirit as when I met him first. In fact, I had never seen him happier.”

“Ah,” she laughed musically with delight, thinking of his familiar face and smile. Then her laugh faltered with wonder that remaining in Ennorath should bring such joy.

“He has been the best of friends to me and my family, and is deeply beloved of all who dwell in my household.” Except for dear old Erestor, Elrond thought. “And he was much pursued by half the unwed  _nissi_  in Endórë.”

Her laugh was like a mountain brook. “That, too, was to be expected.” She sipped her wine, then gazed at him piercingly, her elegant eyebrow raised. “…But you say ‘ _was’_.”

Elrond smiled. “Yes. It is amazing, for all of us who know him, but he has finally found his One.”

Her face shone eagerly. “Finally! I feared it might never happen!”

“Yes, whoever would have believed it of him?”

“Oh, I am so happy! Tell me everything. Is she worthy of him?” She looked a little sceptical that any could be good enough for her darling.

“She is brave, clever, and beautiful, and she adores him. They have been wed almost seventy _coranári_.”

“Oh, that I should have missed the wedding!” she lamented, and heaved a sigh. “Was it beautiful?”

“Very, but neither a grand nor a large one. A joyous, humble affair of good friends and well-wishers. Nine hundred guests.”

“Had he been wed in New Ondolindë, in Alcarinos, he might have had a hundred thousand guests! For not one of the Gondolindrim would have missed it for the world! We must have another wedding celebration there, once he returns. All in the twelve houses would return from the far corners of Aman to behold it.”

Elrond very much doubted that the House of the Mole would show their faces. And the thought of Maeglin at such a wedding was absolutely terrifying. He managed a smile.

“It would be a little strange, to have another wedding. They have children already, just born. Two boys, not yet a year out of the womb at the time we set sail.”

She gave a cry that mingled delight and regret. “Ah, twins? The darlings! Oh, that I was not there for the birth!” Her smile was both dazzling and dreamy. “It is just as well he remains with my great-grandsons. His boys are a little young for the journey. Oh, how impatient I am to see them all!” She sighed again.

Elrond smiled but was silent. He sipped his wine.

His grandmother missed nothing. Her eyes were gazing thoughtfully at him, shrewdly. “He _IS_ coming… is he not?” She spoke slowly.

Elrond looked into the ruby depths of his wine, then met her eyes and said in measured tones, “That is certainly his wish.”

The light of the Trees in those grey eyes pierced him. “But not _hers_ , I gather.” Her voice, so sweet and melodious, had taken on an edge like a steel blade’s.

Elrond calmly set his goblet down. “He will seek to persuade her. And as you know—he can be persuasive.”

She hissed, rose from her seat, and paced up and down for a while. “What kindred is she?” she said in a quiet, hard voice, swinging round to face him. “Is she of the  _Moriquendi_  that she would turn him away from his kin and from the blessed lands?”

“She has never said what kindred she hails from,” Elrond said mildly. Seeing her eyes widen in astonishment, he added, “We found her in a nearby forest, and with apparently no memory of anything before that.”

She tilted her fair head to one side, looking grim. “So, you do not believe her claim to have no memory, _Indya._ ”

“I believe she has reason not to speak of her past, _Haruni._ But none of us have ever sensed anything ill in her.”

“Oh my _pitya,_ ” Idril murmured. “What manner of _nís_ have you wed?”

She looked at her grandson, whose lip was twitching at hearing his tall, ancient friend called _“little one”._ “How could one of his nature, so open and so true, bind with a creature of secrets such as she?”

Elrond had not had any intention of breaking the news on the very day of his arrival, but he sensed it looming. “He knows her secrets, and loves her all the more.”

Idril sat on the couch again, and spoke in a low, calm voice. “You know those secrets, I can tell. Why are you chary of telling me, _Indya_ _?_ ”

Elrond met her eyes. “Question me, _Haruni_ , and I shall answer you.”

She picked up her wine goblet again, and thought for a while as she swirled the ruby liquid. She found herself flinching from the questions most weighing on her heart. “How old is she?”

“Not even a _yén_ in age. She was but a child when found, just blossoming into womanhood, naked as the day she was born. She has perhaps seen a mere hundred and twenty _coranári_.”

She thought of her eternally boyish foster son. “Strange that that should seem fitting, seven millennia old though he may be.”

“Her _fëa_ seems far older than that, though. She is no babe in spirit.”

“In what way?”

“There is nothing of the child in her. She speaks little, and is grave and dutiful and dedicated to the work of her hands.” He avoided the word _craft_. “She neither dances nor sings nor plays as other girls her age are wont to do. Whatever her past, it left a shadow on her. Her laughter and smiles were rare currency before… but he has been good for her and brought her joy.”

“She is wholly unlike him in every way!”

“As night from day.”

Idril’s long, slender fingers toyed with the stem of her wine goblet. “What is she like in appearance?”

He sipped his own wine. “Raven black hair. White skin. Slender but strong. Long black eyes.”

At those last words, Idril’s fair brow furrowed. Black eyes were rare, and found only among the  _Moriquendi_.

Idril had known only two personages with such eyes. Deep, smouldering eyes of black obsidian.

In fact, all of the history of the Eldar recorded only two personages with such eyes.

A Dark Elf. And his son.

She emptied her cup in one gulp.  Elrond began to feel worried.

“Black hair and black eyes, say you?” she asked, her voice strange.

“Yes. A great beauty, I must say, and much admired in our valley.”

She extended her empty cup and he refilled it. They looked out into the night, and listened to song of the Teleri and the long, rolling sound of surf beating on the shore.

“What is her name?” she asked in a quiet voice.

And here it came.

“Lómiel,” said Elrond, as nonchalantly as he could, bracing himself.

A small, strangled sound escaped from his grandmother’s throat, and a little wine splashed from her goblet onto her white skirt.

“Oh, how careless of me. I grow clumsy,” she said with a short laugh, waving off his concern. “It is an old dress. It is no matter.”

She threw her golden head back and drained her cup again.

As she extended her cup again, and he refilled it, Elrond quickly changed the subject and began asking about the island’s central city of Kortirion and the various diversions available there. That would do till later. Let her ponder it for a while, ere they spoke of it again.

He had not even needed to mention that Glorfindel’s wife was a smith.

 

The following night, a brother and sister sat together in a fair garden at the foothills of Taniquetil, where Finrod had built a graceful white mansion so that his beloved Amarië might be close to her people. Their dinner had ended late, and Amarië had retired to allow the two siblings to talk. They had spoken through the night, and at the hour before dawn there was still so much to say after almost seven thousand years of separation. They communicated sometimes with speech, sometimes mind-to-mind.

As the sky in the east began to lighten, Finrod said to his sister:

_“Come, Artë. I have something to show you.”_

He led her into the house, and they continued to speak of various things as they walked through the wide, high-ceilinged corridors. Everything in the house spoke of grace, order and serenity. The corridors lit as they approached, and dimmed after they passed.

Finally, he led her into his study, and opened a door off it leading to another chamber. Hovering golden globes of light came to life.

Galadriel understood the moment she stepped in and her brilliant grey eyes swept over the small room.

On a wall were maps of Beleriand in the First Age and of Middle Earth in the Second and Third Ages. Marked out on the maps were key events of a life, the year and description written in a fair, flowing script by a father who had questioned voyagers returned from the mortal lands, and spoken to rebodied souls released by Mandos, in order to trace the life of a lost son.

Galadriel saw Gondolin and Vinyamar in Nevrast marked out in Beleriand, and the battlefield of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad where Glorfindel had fought.

There was a detailed plan of Gondolin, with all the houses marked out… and marked out too, were Idril’s secret way of escape… and the path through the Cirith Thoronath… and the pinnacle where a battle with balrog had taken place... and a spot where a cairn was raised.

On a map of Middle Earth was Lindon… and Barad-dûr. The battle plain was marked out, where the warrior had almost died a second time and returned to Mandos during the great siege, only to be turned back from the Halls by the Vala, his service not yet done.

In the Northern Kingdom, Fornost was marked... there, he had confronted and driven out the Witch-King of Angmar, and released a prophecy that would be fulfilled a thousand years hence.

There was a large map of Imladris valley, for thousands of years his home and the place where he had faithfully trained generations of the Rangers of the North. Even the plan of the house was marked in some detail with the kitchens, his chambers, the training rooms, the stables, the healing hall, and the Hall of Fire.

And side by side with the maps were portraits capturing a life the father had missed. The finest master painters of Tirion had been commissioned, and caught with breathtaking realism moments of time described by Idril or Voronwë or Galdor or Ecthelion, and later by those who had sailed west from Imladris.

Galadriel saw a child laughing by the sea in a white tunic with his golden hair streaming in the sea breeze… a young Lord of Gondolin in fine blue robes standing grave and attentive by his King’s throne… a rider on a white horse, dressed in hunting garb, his bow drawn… a warrior pushing a mighty balrog down from a pinnacle, his beautiful face stern in battle fury, blue eyes blazing with white fire, frozen in that all-too-brief moment of victory over his foe, as with both hands on the hilt he drove the length of his dirk deep into the balrog’s chest. There was blood on his battle-dented armour, and a livid red streak down one cheek that had been torn by the balrog’s lash, and blood on singed hair that flowed over his shoulder from beneath his helmet—the famed golden hair by which his foe, two seconds hence, would drag the hero to his death into the dark chasm that yawned beneath them both.

A father’s shrine to a son he was still waiting to meet.

All of this, Galadriel’s sharp elven eyes and quick mind took in within three seconds. She turned to look into her brother’s glittering storm-grey eyes. He was leaning against a wall, his posture and the fall of his hair exactly as Glorfindel’s had been, that evening in Lothlórien, when the balrog slayer had asked her who his parents were.

But her brother's eyes as they rested on her were not tormented like his son's had been. They were calm and clear with the patience of a five thousand year wait.

For, of course, as he had spoken to Idril, Finrod had traced Glorfindel’s begetting date. Had understood that something had happened at Doriath, and guessed that Galadriel held the key to it. There was no reproach in the beloved eyes. Just the unspoken question that he did not even need to ask.

It was time for some answers.

Galadriel took his hands in hers, and looked into his waiting eyes. 

_“Ingo, please, please forgive me…”_

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Haruni (Q) – grandmother

Hara máriessë (Q) – stay in happiness (it is a greeting, but I’m using it as a toast)

Indya (Q) – my grandchild [indyo = grandchild, descendant]

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am rushing my rewrite. Can you tell? I’ve been at it for quite a while now, and I’m still not clear how the whole tale is going to wrap up… but I do want to get on with it. I hope the writing won’t suffer, but don’t think I’ll be making too many changes or additions from this point. I have till next week before the next load of RL work hots up, so I’m going to use it to move the chapters as quickly as I can.  
> For some weird reason I just could not fit Tuor into this fic—every time I tried to write him in, it just fizzled out and became a loose end. And I like him, mind you, so this is most perplexing. I know that according to “tradition” Tuor is supposed to have had immortality conferred upon him in Valinor. Keeping in mind that his son, Eärendil, half-elven though he was, would have preferred to have been counted among the edain if not for Elwing’s preference for the elves, I think it is not implausible that Tuor might wished to embrace the Gift of Men. Anyway, I don’t think his death is necessarily a horrible tragedy. When Tuor and Idril married, she would have been fully aware she would only have about half a century or so with him and I gave them about half a millennium together. And let’s remember that to Tolkien it was a great blessing to gain release from the Circles of Arda…  
> That got me thinking about Elwing’s parents, those two ciphers, Dior and Nimloth. One assumes they would have gone to separate afterlifes after being slain in Doriath, so they would be eternally sundered as well. I can see Nimloth opting to remain in the Halls of Mandos, which means that Elwing would look to Idril as the only parent-figure she has left.  
> Since their children are the most precious thing in all Arda to the elves, I think it is natural for poor Finrod to create a shrine of sorts in his effort to get closer to the son he has not yet met, the same way we document our children’s lives through photo albums and enshrine their most embarrassing moments in video footage.  
> Voronwë and Galdor would have been present during escape from Gondolin and witnessed the battle with the balrog, so either one of them could have helped with that painting of Glorfindel. I think Idril would not have as the memories would have been too painful.


	28. All in the Family

The invitation from Legolas arrived in spring.

“Are you insane, Glorfindel? Travelling to the Greenwood is a hundred leagues one way,” Erestor protested as he stirred his herbal tea. “And your children are so tiny.”

The great dining hall was no longer in use. The remnant of Elrond’s household sat gathered in a spacious parlour off the kitchen for their meals. On this spring morning, natural light poured in through large windows that opened onto the apple orchard. The buildings of the smithy and stables were visible beyond early-blooming trees laden with pink blossoms.

“Why is Legolas still in Eryn Lasgalen, anyway? Did he not plan to reside in Ithilien?” Elrohir asked as he popped a dumpling stuffed with meat and vegetables into his mouth.

“Yes, I thought several of his people were ready to go with him,” Elladan said.

“Sadly, Thranduil has not given his blessing, and keeps him in the Woodland Realm,” Glorfindel replied. The warrior was facing a challenge tougher than any cadet he had ever trained: getting his younger son to feed himself rather than flick spoonfuls of porridge at Erestor, Thalanes and Camaen. And at himself. The balrog slayer blocked a glob of porridge before it could hit his bright hair, and managed to get Arman to shovel one more spoonful of porridge into his mouth. In his heart, the father could not fault the infant. Flicking porridge _was_ more fun than eating it.

“Surely you are not going to take the babies through the mountains and through that ghastly forest?” Lindir’s arms tightened protectively about Arinnáro, oblivious to the fact that the tot was painting intricate patterns of butter down the front panel of the bard’s green robe.

“The forest is cleansed and fair again,” said Glorfindel, ducking under the table to dislodge his younger son from Erestor’s leg. “Lómiel and the boys would enjoy it.”

As he emerged from under the tablecloth tucked under his father’s arm, Arman scrunched handfuls of his father’s radiant hair with porridge-stained hands. He had a fetish for hair. And for people’s calves. Erestor pursed his lips as he examined porridge-handprints on his breeches.

Then Maeglin spotted what her firstborn was doing. “Aryo! Stop that!” She wiped butter off the guilty tot’s hands with a napkin and patted the hapless bard’s robe. “Lindir, I am so sorry.”

“Oh, no matter. It is but an old thing I hardly wear.”

“Look what you have done!” said Maeglin sharply. “Aryo, that was naughty and you know it. Say sorry.”

“ _Goheno nin_ , Lindir,” said the baby in a tiny voice with his rich golden head bowed and his grey eyes contrite. Lindir’s heart melted. Aryo enunciated his words with startling clarity for an elfling so tiny, not even lisping. In contrast, his pale-haired brother still had not said his first word. To have been out of the womb fifteen months and not be talking yet was most backward, and everyone was perturbed except for Glorfindel.

“Glorfindel clearly misses his days of adventure and travel,” grinned Elrohir, now cheerfully tucking into a honey pastry filled with berry preserves and cream.

“Well, by all means go, Glorfindel, but go alone,” said Elladan, to the visible horror of Erestor and a few of the others, for the balrog slayer was the only one who could manage both his sons effortlessly.

“No,” said Glorfindel firmly, to collective relief around the table. “I am not going anywhere without my family.”

Feeding time over,  Arman was set down on the floor, and the infant began tearing around the room like a little whirlwind. Inspired, his brother joined him and they both raced madly around the parlour squealing at the top of their little voices.

Erestor gritted his teeth. Dreadful behaviour, for elflings. Almost as bad as mortal children. But what else could be expected, with such a father?

Glorfindel met Maeglin’s eyes across the table and smiled. “What do you think, _melda_? Shall we go?”

At that point, both parents quickly grabbed hold of the tablecloth just as their twins began to pull it and everything upon it onto the floor.

“I think it would do us all good,” replied Maeglin drily, glancing at Erestor’s pained expression.

 

Asfaloth and his companion Gilroch grazed on the sweet grasses of the wide, open plains of the Anduin valley, and watched idly as their riders romped in the open field. Behind them rose the great rugged peaks of the Hithaeglir. Before them, in the distance, ran the broad river, and beyond it lay their destination: the great forest of Eryn Lasgalen which stretched out as far as the eye could see both to the left and right horizon. Above them, in the vast expanse of cerulean blue sky, the descendants of Thorondor the Great still circled high, though they, too, would soon journey west.

The family had encountered wargs twice in the Misty Mountains, Glorfindel and Maeglin quickly dispatching the beasts with arrows. They had met no orcs, stray groups of which still lurked in parts of Middle Earth, hunted relentlessly by the men of Gondor and Rohan.

As the elf family sat on the grass, Glorfindel was singing a cheerful little ditty and tickling his sons. They rolled around in the grass with squeals of delight and peals of silvery laughter.

Watching them, Maeglin thought of her rocky initiation to motherhood a year ago. She had been clueless how to even carry the fragile things. Glorfindel’s laidback attitude to babycare had reassured her. “People complicate this too much,” he said, with a newborn balanced casually on each forearm. “Ensure they are fed, clean, do not drop them, do not drown them. That is all there is to it, really. There you go… support the neck and head.” He passed one to her and watched her awkwardly adjust the newborn in her arms.

“You can breathe,” he added helpfully.

He had happily done everything for the babies in the first days after the birth. Save one thing. “You know I would if I could, _melimë,”_ he said.  

There had not been an elfling in any of the elven realms for decades, thus no nursemaid could be found. Well, Maeglin thought, for all Aredhel had found it tedious, she had nursed Maeglin for several months. She would do the same as her own mother, till the babes could be weaned off onto thin gruel. Glorfindel had sat by, watching with a measure of tender awe as the babies fed.

“What are you staring at?” Maeglin had growled softly at him with narrowed eyes.

“I think that is one of the most beautiful sights in all Arda.”

She snorted. “You’re daft”.

With a smile, he took a baby from her and showed her how to burp it.

Maeglin was glad that now there were no more guards to train, and no more orcs to slaughter, the twins gave Glorfindel a focus for his energies. For herself, she had been amazed that she did not resent the twins taking over her life. An eternity of time for craft stretched ahead, but there were only these brief years of their childhood to enjoy. There was little smithing work to do with Imladris near empty, anyway; Camaen busied himself with maintenance work nowadays more than actual smithing.

Glorfindel’s song concluded and the fair-haired infants scrambled to their feet and tore away across the field through grasses that came up past their chests. As they slowed down to a trot, Aryo looked as though he was telling a long story to his brother. Arman chuckled in reply but was silent. Then he gave his brother a big hug that sent them both tumbling to the ground again, and they rolled around wrestling each other and laughing merrily.

“Stop worrying,” Glorfindel said, as they lay on the grass watching their sons. “Itarillë loved telling everyone how I started speaking late as well. And once I started no one could shut me up. Enjoy this while you can.”

“But you began at twenty-six months. Arman is past that now.” The twins had been out of the womb sixteen months; they were twenty-eight months old.

“Give him time. He’ll be fine.”

Arman began to turn somersaults in the grass. Aryo tried to copy him.

“Did you teach him to do that?” said Maeglin.

“No.” Glorfindel looked surprised that anyone would need to be taught. “It comes naturally.”

Arman tore away on swift, little legs, Aryo chasing after him.

“How much like Arman were you as a child?” asked Maeglin,

“Worse, if you believe the other lords,” laughed Glorfindel. “All save Ecthelion ran for the hills each time they saw Itarillë approaching, those first years of my life. So did your mother. Irissë gave me a wide berth till I was about thirty-five years old and became, as she put it, ‘more interesting’.”

Maeglin gave a wry smile. Her mother had no interest in children… except, thankfully, her own son. In some ways, her mother had been a better friend than a parent. She had neglected Maeglin’s education apart from riding and hunting, and had casually and cursorily taught him to read and write Quenya only when he secretly asked her to, at the age of twenty. The sporadic lessons had not amounted to much.  Years later, he had struggled to catch up under Pengolodh’s tutelage.

Glorfindel looked at Maeglin and thought how like and unlike her mother she was. The same pride and independence, yes… but Aredhel had been careless of duty or obligation, whereas Maeglin had always demanded much of himself, ever seeking to prove himself able and deserving of the positions Turgon had given him. Aredhel had been as ebullient and self-assured as Glorfindel. But whereas Glorfindel could channel his energies into running a house and training for war, Aredhel could only spend idle days riding her horse around the green valley, practising archery, and being exhorted to take up weaving or tending flowers or painting like other ladies. No wonder the valley had become, for her, a prison.

Glorfindel looked at Maeglin with soft eyes. Beneath the scowls and taciturn arrogance, Glorfindel saw—had always seen—vulnerability and self-doubt lurking. The softness of the porcupine beneath the quills. Such depths of tenderness and love had blossomed in her, over their years together, safe in his acceptance of who she was.

The children had wandered too far; the parents chased after them.

“Ah,” said Glorfindel, looking into the distance as they caught up with the twins. “Old friends.”

Three powerfully-built black-bearded men were headed their way. The leader looked to be taller than Glorfindel by a head.

“I would want to be their friends, all right,” Maeglin murmured. “Are those axes strapped to their backs?” She was armed and would have been unconcerned if not for their babes.

“Fear not the Beornings. They have ever been my friends,” said Glorfindel. “Almost all who pass this way use the Old Ford they maintain to cross the Anduin.” He whistled for the horses and sat Arman on his shoulders, whilst Maeglin placed Aryo in the cloth sling tied across her body. They walked towards the descendants of bears and men and he sent her his thoughts. _“We are not dwarves so we need not worry. They like me enough to usually give me a discount on my toll.”_

The Beornings looked down at the elven family with amused interest. “We knew not, Golden-haired, that there were still young amongst your kind,” said the tallest among the three, in a deep rumbling voice. His beard was grey, but his eyes were still bright and sharp.

“They are treasures rare indeed, in these days of our fading, Grimbeorn son of Beorn,” smiled Glorfindel, speaking also in Westron.

“Hail, good friends,” said Aryo clearly in Westron, startling his parents. Both he and his brother were gazing spellbound with huge eyes at the tall Beornings with their black or grey beards, ferocious eyebrows, hairy muscular arms, tattoos, and burly thickset bodies. Silent Arman was so rapt and fascinated that he kept very still.

The Beornings burst into laughter, showing two longer, sharp fangs like a bear’s among their teeth. Though tall for elflings, the twins were far smaller than Beorning infants of a year old.

“Hail, little elf!” rumbled Grimbeorn the Old. “That was well-spoken. If you would be friends indeed, come closer.” And he took the two elflings in his large, broad hands and sat them one on each shoulder. The twins laughed in delight as the Beorning chieftain walked toward the stone bridge spanning the river.

“Your elflings cross free with me. Just two silver pieces for you, your lady, and your horses.”

“My great thanks, son of Beorn,” said Glorfindel, making the much-discounted payment.

“You are a mighty goblin-slayer, Golden-haired. My father named you Friend from of old.” The sun was beginning to set as they began to cross the bridge, the powerful waters of the Anduin rushing beneath it.

“It would seem our goblin-slaying days will soon be past, Lord of the Beornings.”

“Aye, may the foul things perish from the earth.” The chieftain spat into the river.

“Have any been sighted here of late?” asked Maeglin.

“Not in these open plains for a seven-month. But have a care in the deep woods, especially with your young ones. They hide.”

On the other side, the twins held on to the Beorning chieftain’s neck as Glorfindel reached for them.

“No, _Atto!”_ said Aryo. “Again, again!”

Arman made a wordless cooing sound that said the same.

“Shall I keep them till you return?” Grimbeorn bared his bear fangs in a smile again.

“You would regret it, Lord of the Beornings. They would try anyone’s patience dearly,” said Maeglin with a smile.

“Enough, boys! Time to go!” said Glorfindel in Quenya, his tone of voice brooking no nonsense. The twins reluctantly allowed their father to carry them down.

“Till we return, Grimbeorn!” said Glorfindel.

“Safe journey, ageless ones. Till we meet again.”

“Farewell!” Aryo chirped. Both twins waved.

Glancing over her shoulder as they rode away, Maeglin saw three great black bears, ambling slowly back across the river in the fading evening light.

“Did you teach Aryo Westron?” Maeglin asked Glorfindel as they mounted the horses and rode towards the forest.

“No, but he was present when Estel’s men were passing through to Arnor. He must have picked it up.”

“And when will you decide to speak, _pityo?_ ” said Maeglin to Arman.

The infant grinned radiantly back at her and said nothing.

They turned their horses toward the great forest.

 

In Eryn Lasgalen, even at noon, were places of a perpetual twilit gloom beneath a dense canopy of tall trees. The twins were sleeping, each in a sling tied around one of their parents.

“It reminds me of Nan Elmoth,” Maeglin said, her black eyes glittering. “But there is no dark enchantment here.”

“No longer. But you did not see it when I visited eleven _coranári_ ago. It was evil then.”

Glorfindel then fell silent. For suddenly, looking at the back of his beloved as she rode before him on Gilroch, he was unexpectedly shaken by the memory of Aredhel. Again. Maeglin wore a white tunic he had given her, and she shimmered in the shadows like a moonflower. Her hair, braided for practicality since the twins’ birth, was today in a style that made her the spitting image of Aredhel on the fateful day Glorfindel had lost the princess in the gloom of Nan Dungortheb.

The first bitter failure of his life.

Pursued by monstrous spiders that made the Mirkwood ones look like docile sheep, the three lords of Gondolin escorting the princess had searched desperately for her for over two months. They found themselves helplessly going in circles, all their mental strength needed to withstand the assault of the evil oppression that lay upon that Valley of Dreadful Death. Their horses were tormented, trembling, ears down, and showing the whites of their eyes.

It was Egalmoth who finally said, weary almost to breaking, "It is hopeless. We can do no more."

"No!" Glorfindel had protested, though he too could feel himself beginning to crack under the strain. "We cannot give up. We _cannot_ lose her. How could we face the king and tell him we lost his sister?"

They looked at Ecthelion. They had eaten nothing for almost all their time in that accursed place, small hardship compared to no water for over a month, for they dared not drink from the poisoned springs around them. They had rested but not slept at all, for in that foul place to sleep was never to wake again. The valley oppressed their spirits like a waking nightmare, whispering despair and dark thoughts. The hardiest of the Noldor they might be, but they were so parched and weakened and disoriented that they could sustain it no longer. “Egalmoth is right,” Ecthelion had said finally in a bleak, cracked voice. “We have done what we can.”  They would bring the grievous news back to their king, and submit to his punishment.

Sorrow and guilt had tormented them for a long season, as they thought of the fair, fey, free spirit they had left behind. Wondered if she lay dead or grievously injured somewhere, or if she had escaped the deadly maze by some extraordinary chance.

They would not know the truth for fifty years.

Even naturally resilient and joyous Glorfindel had been weighed down by grief and failure and the fury of the king… nagged by the thought that perhaps, had they searched just one more week, one more day, they might have found her. They would have brought her back safely from the visit to her Fëanorian cousins. She would have lived on in the safety of Gondolin… which would not have been betrayed… which would not have fallen…

For, had the lords not lost her in the Valley of Dreadful Death, there would have been no Dark Elf in Aredhel’s life, and no Maeglin.

“Are you all right?” Maeglin asked. “You are so quiet.”

“I was just thinking of your mother,” he replied. “I failed Turukáno, I failed her, that day we lost her in Nan Dungortheb. I could not forgive myself for it for so many years. But had I not… there would have been no you. No us. And no them.” He looked at his children and at his wife. So much tragedy and grief had come from the loss of Aredhel, that it made him feel wrong, guilty, wicked to find any kind of gladness in what he had gained from it. 

“There is something you should know,” Maeglin said. “My mother sought to be lost that day. She was trying her best to shake off the three of you. She told me what a pain it was to be chaperoned, how Turukáno treated her like she was a child. Do not ever reproach yourself for it again.”

As they reached a part where the path broadened, she drew Gilroch alongside Asfaloth. “There was a time I cursed the day I was born, when I wished my mother never rode into Nan Elmoth,” she said, her black eyes gazing piercingly into his. “But what happened, happened. If we have the one good thing that has come out of all that _muk_ , let us be thankful for it. Let us not regret you failed that day.”

And they leaned in for a long, deep kiss over the heads of their sleeping sons.

 

The beauty of Eryn Lasgalen had truly been restored. There were dreamlike stretches where the early summer sun fell in golden rays through the canopy above. There were sunlit clearings where the infants chased butterflies of many jewelled hues, and tiny, iridescent blue-and-golden bees. The liquid warbling of many fair birds could be heard each day, and bright flashes of wings seen in the treetops. They came to the Enchanted River, and followed it as it flowed north-east.

“The forests of Oromë are fairer by far, and larger by far than this,” said Glorfindel to Maeglin as they walked by the river, as he snatched Arman up by the scruff of his neck before the tot fell off the bank. “We could build a house there and enjoy perfect seclusion. No one else for hundreds of miles around.”

Maeglin took a red mushroom with white spots out of Aryo’s hands before the tot could stuff it into his mouth. He protested. “Not an edible one, Aryo. See the colour?”

“There are beautiful lakes in Oromë’s forest into which waterfalls cascade,” Glorfindel was saying. “The Great Hunter would welcome us there. A house on a lake shore—what do you think? Good fishing, and every type of fair bird and butterfly and woodland creature in the surrounding woods. No, Arman! – there could be snakes in there.” Glorfindel pulled his son out of a hollow log filled with dead leaves.

“Sounds nice,” Maeglin conceded, as she and Aryo made friends with a fluffy-tailed squirrel on the trunk of a tree.

“And by the rivers that run through the deep woods are caves. Glittering, comfortable caves. Forget about building a house—we could live there too!”

By nature open and forthright, the warrior was gently nudging his wife towards Aman as subtly as a _Mûmakil_ charging through a Haradrin bazaar. She alternated between resenting it, and actually giving it consideration. Twilight was falling. She looked around the peaceful forest.

“It is fair enough in these woods. We could stay here.”

Glorfindel was momentarily silent, not just from disappointment. Having been momentarily distracted by the squirrel, his eyes were searching for his secondborn.

He looked up a tree.

How had Arman climbed up there so fast?

The father beamed with pride. “Look, _vesseya_! Look how well he can climb!”

Maeglin looked up and blanched.

Right on cue, Arman fell and was caught by his father.

“How did you let that happen?” she said angrily. “He could have been killed!”

“Never—I would definitely have caught him.”

“You _cannot_ take your eyes off him for more than three seconds!”

“He _is_ incredibly fast, is he not?” said the father with some pride, holding Arman up and nuzzling the laughing child’s tummy.

“What if you had not seen him in time?”

“Now I know he can climb, I shall be more watchful.”

Then the warrior’s head went up. She saw his expression change, and his eyes glint coldly as they gazed into the shadows around them.

_“Quick. Get on Gilroch.”_

The horses at an unspoken signal trotted to them and Maeglin unquestioningly swung herself onto Gilroch’s back. Glorfindel handed the infants up to her, and in a flash he had strung his bow and nocked an arrow, a battle-fire not kindled for a long time lighting in his eyes. Asfaloth stood by Gilroch, defending the dappled stallion’s other flank.

Maeglin fitted both babies in her sling and held on to them. They were silent, sensing their parents’ tension. Her fingers itched to reach for her bow.

A familiar stench, grunts, and crashing sounds through undergrowth. Glorfindel quickly assessed the threat. Eight orcs. Axes, blades, no spears, no arrows. In a flash, two dropped with arrows in their throats. One began to shriek a retreat in Black Speech before it too crumpled with an arrow in its eye. Then the bright warrior from Valinor was upon them.

Battle adrenalin sang in Glorfindel’s blood as his sword sang once again. He had missed this rush, he thought, felling three of them so swiftly they hardly registered his attack. He glanced back briefly and saw Maeglin struggling to keep Arman from climbing out of his sling. The seventh orc barely knew what hit him as the golden-haired warrior’s blade took off his head. Then, as Glorfindel closed in on the last orc, an arrow from above felled it with an arrow straight through the head.

Disappointment and annoyance flashed over the balrog slayer’s fair face.

“ _Suilad!”_ said a familiar voice from on high.

“ _Suilad_ , Legolas. That was my _orch_. Go find your own!”

The prince dropped lightly from above, jumped on the balrog slayer and hugged him.

“This being my forest, I have better claim on any orcs in it than you do. It is good to see you, Glorfindel!” The fair-haired prince turned to Maeglin with a radiant smile and swept her a deep and gallant bow. “ _Mae tollen_ , my fair lady Lómiel! It is a joy to see you once again, and to finally meet your children!”

Maeglin smiled and dismounted, Aryo still slung around her, Arman held firmly under her arm. “ _Mae g’ovannen_ , Legolas. It has been a long time. How does Gimli?”

At Estel and Arwen’s wedding feast at Minas Tirith, Gimli had remembered Maeglin from the reforging of Narsil, and had nodded at her good-naturedly enough as she made towards the space next to him at the table. Emboldened by this, she had said coolly as she took her seat, “ _Gamut sanu yenet,_ _Gimli Glóinul.”_

The dwarf had almost blown out a mouthful of mead at being addressed in Khuzdul by a heavily pregnant she-elf.

Glorfindel had returned to the feast, after a fascinating meeting with Éowyn of Rohan, to find Gimli and Maeglin getting along famously in a mix of Westron and Khuzdul. The dwarrow was pushing a tall cup of Rohirric mead before Maeglin, for the dwarf had concluded, like Estel, that the she-elf was half-dwarrow. The elflord had immediately snatched away the cup.

“Dwarfling livers may be strong as stone, elflings’ are not!” he protested to the dwarf in Westron.

“Nay, it will do her and the wee ones no harm!” snorted the dwarf. “Put hair on her chin, it would. Then what a fine dwarrowdam she would be. Ho ho!”

“Yes, and I should _so_ love that,” Glorfindel had said dryly, raising both the cup and an elegant elven eyebrow at the dwarf, then chugging down the mead on his wife’s behalf.

Legolas, who had of course been seated on Gimli’s other side, had witnessed all this with the greatest amusement. With sparkling eyes, he now said, “Gimli is very well, Lady Lómiel, and remembers you kindly. He looks forward to welcoming you to Erebor, ere he departs for Aglarond.” Stepping forward, the archer smiled at the babies. “ _Suilad,_ little ones!”

“ _Suilad_ ,” said Aryo shyly. Arman dazzled Legolas with a miniature version of Glorfindel’s brightest smile, climbed swiftly out of his mother’s arms, and hurled himself onto the prince, whose pale gold hair and blue eyes were identical in colour to his. Legolas caught the baby, and gazed, stunned, into his face.

Maeglin and Glorfindel exchanged a look.

“That is Arman. He looks a little like you, does he not?” said Glorfindel lightly.

“That is an understatement,” said Legolas, not minding as Arman reached out to grab a handful of princely hair as fair and silken as his own. He turned to look at Glorfindel as though suddenly seeing the elflord’s azure eyes for the first time, and looked thoughtful.

“Legolas, is it safe here?” said Maeglin, coming to her beloved’s rescue. “Where did the _yrch_ come from?” Glorfindel quickly took Arman from Legolas before the tot could stuff the prince’s hair into his mouth.

“There are some _yrch_ who have made a nest in the caverns of Emyn Duir, the mountains south of here.”

“They fled without even putting up a fight.” It had been almost disappointing, thought Glorfindel.

Legolas smiled. “I have been hunting them. They are pretty jittery and cowed by now.” 

“How many?” asked Glorfindel, his face keen.

“We are not sure. Perhaps a hundred. We plan to mount an attack to eradicate them soon. The problem is, the caverns are a treacherous maze to battle in, and they run deep. It was once a stronghold of ours, before the shadow claimed it.”

“Let us study the ancient maps. The two of us should undertake a reconnaissance. Your father might know of secret tunnels created by the Silvan folk, which would open only to _edhil,_ and allow us to enter unseen.” Glorfindel was glowing with anticipation of the challenge. “Once we know their numbers and the lay of the land, how hard can it be?”

The babies gurgled in what sounded like agreement, and their mother rolled her eyes fondly.

Putting distance between themselves and Emyn Duir, they journeyed north-east through the night. Legolas and Glorfindel led the way on foot, Maeglin rode behind them on Gilroch and quietly nursed the babies, while Asfaloth took the rear. Though Glorfindel had told her she could now wean them off, she had found herself oddly loath to surrender this special connection with them, and still nursed them once a day.

Legolas unburdened his heart. His triumphant return from the War of the Ring had brought his father more pain than joy. Seeing the sea-light in his son’s eyes, Thranduil had at once opposed Legolas’ going to Ithilien, and forbidden any of the Silvan folk to go with him. The Woodland King was a proud Sinda, like his great-uncle Celeborn and his father Oropher before him. They had turned aside from the Great Journey in the time of starlight, choosing the light of the maia Melian over the light of the Trees. They had rejected the west a second time after the War of Wrath, and journeyed east instead. This was a matter of ancient pride. All attempts by Legolas to reason or plead with his father had failed. It had reached a point where Thranduil would react in cold fury at any mention of Ithilien or the sea, and Legolas spoke of them no longer.

“Do you wonder?” said Glorfindel. “He would lose you. His greatest fear, I am sure, is that you sail to the west.”

Legolas was quiet, his glittering blue eyes sadder than Glorfindel had ever seen them before.

“He has lost me already,” the prince finally said.

Glorfindel was shocked. This was Legolas, the most obedient and dutiful of sons.

“I stay because he has enjoined me to,” said the prince in a resigned voice. “I shall not oppose his will. I shall give my strength to serve him and obey him as my father and king. But my heart is in Ithilien, and my _fae_ yearns to the sea which sings to me. I love these woods and I always shall. My heart rejoices to see it fair and flourishing as it was of old. But I belong here no longer. And whilst I am here, I do not truly live.”

Maeglin listened silently as she patted Arman to sleep on her shoulder. Wondering if a day would come when Glorfindel in Ennor might echo those same sentiments, as the sea called him home.

And if it might estrange them, as it had estranged Legolas from his king…

 

The visitors had just passed through the vast stone gates of the elvenking’s halls and dismounted from their steeds when Thranduil emerged from a great stone archway in his green and gold riding clothes, flanked by attendants. Just as Arman went hurtling across the gravel of the foyer at breakneck speed, straight towards him.

Glorfindel could and probably should have intercepted the child, but chose instead to watch in fascination. He was not alone. As two Silvan attendants led the horses away, both Maeglin and Legolas stood rooted as well. They all watched.

King Thranduil had the strangest look on his face as the tiny elfling with pale-gold hair latched onto his riding boot. They watched as the king, after staring for a moment at the baby attached to his leg, stooped to lift Arman into his arms and gazed at the elfling much as his son had earlier. Looked into azure blue eyes with dark lashes, smiling at him. Looked at the curling wisps of white-gold hair like a bright nimbus on the baby’s head.

The elfling smiled shyly at Thranduil from under his long eyelashes.

“ _I should like to see you tell him,_ ” Maeglin thought to Glorfindel, as she picked up Aryo before he could stuff a handful of shining gravel into her boot. 

“ _Are you mad? Tell Thranduil that the Sindarin mother he adored seduced my golodh father? You’ll find yourself widowed before you can say ‘Kinslaying’. Either he hears it one day from our mother herself, or not at all_.” He picked a piece of gravel from Aryo’s mouth. “ _Besides, you know I must speak first to my father.”_

Legolas was stifling a smile as Arman reached out, took the crown of forest springflowers from the Woodland King’s hair, and took a mouthful of the glorious confection of bluebells, celandine, and wood violets.

Glorfindel was at the king’s side in the next instant, and Arman actually bawled and kicked as his father pulled him out of Thranduil’s arms. “ _Le suilon_ , King Thranduil. Please excuse my son.” The warrior smiled apologetically as he handed the slightly mauled crown back to the king. Without it, the king was a hand’s breadth shorter than his elder brother.

“No matter,” said Thranduil coolly, examining the crown in his hand rather absently. His gaze then raked over the visitors. He gave a chilly smile. “Lord Glorfindel. And your whole family, we see. A pleasant surprise.” Glorfindel gave Legolas a sharp look but the prince was gazing at his father impassively as he walked towards them with Maeglin. Two attendants followed with the visitors’ saddlebags.

“King Thranduil, allow me to humbly present to you my lady-wife Lómiel,” said Glorfindel, as Maeglin came to his side. “And may I present as well our sons Arinnáro, and his younger brother Arman, whom you have met.”

“ _Le suilon_ , King Thranduil,” said Maeglin dipping a reverential enough bow, but her voice as cool as the king’s. Their eyes met with equal hauteur. The corners of Thranduil’s mouth curled. An arrogant _golodhrin_ wench with _avarin_ eyes. Intriguing. As his eyes raked over her from head to toe, she relived the condescension of the Doriathrin nobility towards their vassals in Nan Elmoth. Glorfindel saw his beloved’s proud back stiffen, and spoke a soft word of caution to her mind, his free hand unthinkingly caressing the small of her back. She lowered her gaze slightly and her mouth curved in a charming smile that did not touch her eyes.

“You are welcome to Eryn Lasgalen,” said Thranduil. “We are sorry that we were not better prepared for your arrival. Someone was remiss in informing us of your visit.” Reprimand weighted his words, and his eyes rested on his son.

“Forgive me, Adar.” Legolas bowed. “I did inform you ere I sent the invitation. But I was in the forest when the bird brought the reply, and I have just only returned now.” Which immediately told Glorfindel that Legolas had spent a whole month hiding away in the forest. “There are _yrch_ still in Emyn Duir, Adar. I have been hunting, and killed a total of twenty-one. Glorfindel encountered and killed another seven three days back. With him, we will exterminate that _orchrin_ nest, Adar.”

“Let Lord Glorfindel tend to his family. He is not here to deal with a handful of _yrch_ we can easily handle.” The King’s eyes lingered on Arman again. “Show our guests to their chamber,” he continued to Legolas, “And we shall speak further about Emyn Duir when we return.”

Arman was looking back at Thranduil with huge eyes. “I must say, he really likes you.” said Glorfindel. _No accounting for taste_ , he thought.

Thranduil smiled at the infant. A very rare, fleeting smile, and a genuine one this time, that made him look young and boyish for a moment. “A fine boy,” the King said. “His colouring is rather different from your own. Or your lady’s.” He scrutinized them both.

“Yes. Strange, is it not?” Glorfindel smiled brightly at Thranduil. “Enjoy your ride, Sire. It is a beautiful day. Eryn Lasgalen is all that I remembered, and more.”

“ _Ammë, Atto_ , where are we going now?” Aryo was saying in Quenya as Legolas led them into the underground halls.

“Speak Sindarin here, Aryo. _Nana, Ada, mas ledhiam_?” said Glorfindel.

Silent Arman gazed at Thranduil over his father’s shoulder.

They disappeared through the high stone arch.

Thranduil stared after them for a while after they had gone, lost in thought. Then he tossed the damaged flower crown casually into the hands of a non-plussed attendant. His attendants could make a new one along the way. Anemones this time, he decided. Not golden celandine.

He walked swiftly to where his spirited grey horse waited, pawing the ground restively.

 

“Tomorrow, Glorfindel and I will try to enter the caves and scout around,” said Legolas. “The old maps will serve only as a rough guide. They _are_ a thousand years old.”

Thranduil frowned as they looked down on the maps of the forest and of the old cavern system of Emyn Duir on the table before them. “Just the two of you? Bring four of the guard.”

“The fewer the better. Glorfindel is like twenty warriors in one anyway,” said Legolas, smiling at Glorfindel.

“He shines like twenty as well,” said Thranduil, cuttingly. “Hardly wise, for secret movement through dark caves.”

 _Not again._ “I shall wear a cloak and hood,” sighed Glorfindel, wearily.

“It might be simpler and more effective to dye the hair,” said Thranduil drily.

Glorfindel laughed, but Legolas said in shock, “Oh, surely not, Adar! That would be inconceivable!”

“And what will the lady and infants do whilst you two explore caves?” asked Thranduil.

Glorfindel’s smile faded. Maeglin would have a hard time managing Arman and Aryo by herself, and it would put her in a foul mood.

“She will have two attendants to wait on her and the children,” Legolas reassured Glorfindel. “And the children could play in the private gardens, could they not, Adar?”

Thranduil considered it. “Certainly,” he said.

 

The Woodland King stood by a window and watched as Glorfindel and Legolas rode out the next morning, talking animatedly to each other, and brooded. It should have been good to hear Legolas laugh again, but the father could only feel a stab of jealous anger at how much pleasure the prince took in the _golodh_ warrior’s company. 

Just the previous night, Legolas had sat across from the king at the royal dining table, giving polite answers in a flat voice, and gazing at his plate with distant, dreamy eyes and averted face. Already an ocean apart from his father in spirit.

The Woodland King heard his son’s bright laugh at something Glorfindel had said, and glowered at the balrog-slayer’s disappearing back.

There had been a time Thranduil and Glorfindel had similarly been friends. He recalled the day, late in the Second Age, that he had brought the balrog-slaying hero home to the Greenwood.

As the Woodland Prince led the elflord of Imladris into the throne room, he had watched his beloved father Oropher turn pale upon his throne, his eyes frozen on the golden-haired warrior. The prince had watched bewildered as Oropher’s mouth hardened in an angry line and his eyes burned with something close to hatred. The Imladrin elflord, at a loss as to why he evoked such hostility, decided that perhaps he should reassure Oropher that he had never ever played any part in any kinslayings. As part of this attempt to mollify the king, the warrior introduced himself by emphasizing he had spent most of his first life in Gondolin, and been killed there.

Oropher, still pale, had asked a strange question: “And where begotten?”

“Not in Valinor, your highness, not at all. In Beleriand.”

“Where in Beleriand?”

Before a hall of Sindarin and Silvan nobility and the guards at the entrance, Glorfindel had blushed red in embarrassment and Thranduil had cringed on his behalf. “Forgive me, Sire,” the golden-haired lord had said finally in a level, quiet voice. “I do not know where.”

A soft murmur had swept around the room. Oropher’s eyes had narrowed. Then came an even stranger question still: “The year?”

“The fifty-first year of the First Age of _Anor_. In _Iavas.”_

At this reply, the king’s face had gone so livid, Prince Thranduil had murmured something polite and hastily pulled his _golodh_ friend out of the throne room.

“What did I do wrong? Was it something I said? Is there something wrong with my Sindarin?” Glorfindel had said, quite upset and bewildered.

“Nothing is wrong with your Sindarin,” Thranduil had said, equally upset and bewildered.

“Well. I think I had better leave at once,” said Glorfindel. There was no point causing a serious diplomatic incident with his presence. He would have to report this to Elrond, and perhaps Erestor would have to visit the Greenwood shortly to smooth things out.

Knowing his father, Thranduil had agreed. He had walked his friend to the great stone doors, and watched him ride his white horse away.

His father Oropher had not spoken one word about the incident ever again. Had never again acknowledged the existence of the golden elflord, and behaved as though the visit had never taken place.

It went without saying that Imladris never sent the golden warrior to the Greenwood ever again in Oropher’s time.

During the Battle of Dagorlad, Glorfindel had gone to Oropher’s side, cut down the orcs around him and borne the severely wounded king off the battlefield. It was unjust, perhaps, but Thranduil wondered if Oropher, seeing who his saviour was, had received a death blow to his pride and heart in that moment. Thranduil owed his own life on that bitter battlefield to Glorfindel and the Imladrim. But deep within, he blamed the warrior for his father’s death. And once his beloved father was buried and his memory enshrined sacred in Thranduil’s mind, it would have sullied that memory to continue friendship with one who had angered Oropher so intensely in life.

Glorfindel and Legolas had by now disappeared into the forest. Thranduil turned away and swept down the corridors of his halls, his long leaf-green robes trailing behind him. He climbed the stairs to his private gardens, from which one could see the forest canopy spreading out below. Erebor loomed in the east. Attendants following him poured out wine for him as he seated himself on his usual chair.

He watched as two tiny elflings ran around the far end of the garden, watched over by their black-haired mother and two Silvan attendants.

His eyes rested on the child with white-gold hair. An infant so much like Legolas at the same age that his heart ached to see it. The laughing little blue eyes, the sweet, adoring smile. So full of life, so innocent. So happy.

Again he saw the face of his beloved son at every dinner for the past year. The remote gaze of the sky-blue eyes. Lost in a reverie as he pushed food around his plate, absently nodding when his father spoke to him, Legolas was already wandering in a forest in the south, dreaming of the sea…

Pain clenched the father’s heart. He would do what he had to do to keep his only child away from the Sundering Sea.

Thranduil drank his wine and watched Arman climb a tall statue of Yavanna swiftly, his mother desperately grabbing him by the seat of his pants as he swung from the _Valie_ ’s forearm.

How had Glorfindel fathered a child with pale-gold hair? Thranduil looked at the black-haired _elleth_ with the children. The suspicions playing in his mind as he finished his wine were not pleasant ones.

They mostly revolved around four golden-haired brothers who had visited Doriath often, and been welcomed as kin by the great Thingol. The brothers had all been slain by the time Thranduil was born, but he knew, as he thought of the Lady Galadriel, how they would have looked. Tall, with deep, rich gold hair. Like Glorfindel.

He thought tenderly of his mother. Her beauty, her sweetness, her devotion to himself and his father and sister. The memory of her death still brought so much pain he seldom thought of it.

He had only seen eleven _coranári_ when the kinslayers descended on Doriath at Yule. The noise, the screams, the terror.

The blood. On his mother’s shimmering lilac dress, on her long white-gold hair. He had watched it spread, dark crimson, over the stones of the floor. The tiny child had looked up in terror at the tall _golodh_ warrior towering over his mother’s body, still stunned with horror at how brutally she had been struck down. He had trembled before the warrior whose dark hair fell in waves over his blood-spattered armour, silver eyes blazing fiery like a demon’s, a face shining with inhuman, terrible beauty. The child quaked uncontrollably as the sharp edge of the bright cruel sword, still dripping with his mother’s blood, was pressed against his own neck. Clinging to his mother’s body, he had waited for the blade to pierce him.

Instead, as the demon’s eyes stared down on Thranduil, their fire had faded, and the silver eyes had glittered softly.

The point of the sword had withdrawn, leaving a red gash. Mother and son’s blood mingled.

Then the demon had turned, and with the swirl of a dark-red cloak, had quickly walked away.

Thranduil had placed his hand on his mother’s face. It was so cold. Her blue eyes were fixed on something far away. Her lips were moving. Shaping a word. Or a name. He could not make it out.

It had not been his name, or his father’s.

Unconsciously, the king lifted a jewelled hand to touch the white scar at his neck, that he always took care to have covered by his collar. A _golodh_ demon had taken his mother’s life and ripped his childhood away from him.

Now, the more Thranduil thought of it, they might have done more to her, in an earlier time.

As he drank his fourth goblet of wine, he brooded on the accursed golden-haired _golodhrim_ who had been so welcomed into Doriath by their king. Thought of one of them taking his lovely mother in the flower of her youth. Forcing himself on her. It filled him with cold rage to think of it.

He felt surer of it the more that he thought.

As his father Oropher had been sure, the moment he had set eyes on Glorfindel’s face, and seen his wife’s lovely eyes and smile in the face of a scion of Finarfin.

That Glorfindel might thus be his half-brother did nothing to endear the warrior to Thranduil. Not when he came from a race of ravishers and murderers. The king remembered the sadness he had seen haunting his mother’s beautiful eyes. He understood it now. And held Glorfindel accountable for it.

An elfling’s bright, silvery laughter. He watched the pale-haired infant, so like another that it could be his very own blood running across the lawn. And he found he could not ascribe any sin of its fathers to it. He could only gaze, and recall a time eight-and-a-half centuries ago, and yearn.

 

Thranduil invited Glorfindel’s wife to join him for lunch in the garden. She was not much of a conversationalist, but then it was not talk he sought. He idly admired the delicate loveliness of her face and the curve of her white throat and full bosom. One of the boons of motherhood. Like a good host, he had ordered dresses sent to the guest chamber, the previous evening. She had chosen to wear a deep green gown. His eyes roamed over the rounded swell of creamy white skin as it glowed translucent and flawless above the low-cut bodice. It was ever a pleasure to be surrounded by beautiful things.

He found himself amused more than offended by the arrogant lift of her _golodhrin_ chin, the hauteur in the cool _avarin_ -black eyes. She spoke to him courteously, but without deference, as one used to supping with kings. One or two casual comments betrayed a keen mind. She coolly pushed all sharp and breakable objects on the table out of range as her son lunged at them. Her elder son was being cared for by the attendants, who already adored him, but the younger one needed special handling and she had apologized for bringing him to the table. He was at a stage where “no” and “stop that” in any language of the Free Peoples meant “this is fun”. Left on his own to rampage through the garden, he would have massacred all the king’s prize blossoms, and left bare patches on the lawn.

Most pleased to have the boy near, the king summoned an attendant to cut the mother’s food for her since her hands were too occupied with her restless son to manage a knife.

She made some attempt at small talk, mentioning that Elrond’s sons would soon be heading to Gondor to visit their sister and foster brother.

“King Elessar and Queen Arwen are expecting their first child,” she said.

“Ah,” said Thranduil. “An heir early, one hopes.”

“Not unless the laws of the land change. It is a daughter.”

“What a pity,” said the king, as he sliced his venison.

He saw her eyes narrow ever so slightly and glint with annoyance. He was certain as she stabbed that next piece of venison with her fork that she was visualizing his jugular. His lips curved in a small smile.

As the dessert was served, the infant slipped under the table. Tossing her napkin on the table, the mother quickly followed him under.

The king looked down as tiny arms latched around his left calf, and stooped to pick up the infant just as the mother’s hands made a grab for him.

Thranduil smiled down at the shocked black eyes looking up at him from under the table, as she crouched at his feet like a supplicant. And admired the view to Rohan down the neck of her gown.

The shock in her eyes deepened, and in the next moment fury smouldered in them and he saw her fists clench. She swiftly crawled out from under the table, her mouth a hard, angry line, and he was certain she intended to throw a punch at his jaw. He returned her livid gaze calmly, lifting one brow in mild surprise, as though an ornamental vase had decided to throw a tantrum.

For a moment she saw herself half a head taller, lifting the king out of his seat and throttling him with one strong hand…

Then her hands unclenched. She reached them out to retrieve her son.

Thranduil held up a hand. “Leave him here a while. He seems perfectly comfortable.”

And it was true. Arman sat on Thranduil’s lap and gazed up at him with huge eyes. He was not fidgeting.

“It would appear you have a calming effect on him, King Thranduil,” she said, grudgingly.

“So it would seem.”

As the mother retook her seat, Thranduil leaned back in his chair, goblet in hand, looking down at the tot. The silky pale locks. The velvet curve of the tiny cheek. The long, dark lashes. Arman was peering at the contents of the king’s wine goblet, deeply fascinated by its ruby depths. A faint smile hovered on the king’s lips.

The mother’s eyes narrowed. Thranduil’s blue eyes met her black ones ever so briefly and glinted wickedly.  Dipping a finger into his Dorwinion, the king placed one drop of the wine on the infant’s tiny pink tongue. Arman tasted it thoughtfully, then hugged himself in delight with his little arms and gave the king a huge, blissful smile. The king smiled back.

The mother froze. _That presumptuous balrog-****ing peacock._

With the slightest hint of steel in her coldly courteous voice, the mother said, “Sire, it is not our custom at Imladris to give our children any strong drink before their fifteenth year.” Especially not a potent Dorwinion vintage.

“It was but a drop,” said Thranduil, lifting his eyebrows slightly. “And he enjoyed it, did you not, _pen dithen?”_

Arman smiled enthusiastically.

“He also enjoys grabbing at knife blades. That does not mean it is healthy for him.”

“Legolas too had a little drop now and then at his age. It did him no harm.” He dipped his finger again and gave a delighted Arman another drop of Dorwinion. On his lap, he saw another infant in another time.

The mother seethed with outrage.

“Your majesty has borne with this imposition most graciously.” Her voice was as icy as the frozen wastes of the Forodwaith. “But it is time for the children’s nap. I beg that you will excuse us.”

Arman was playing with the ends of Thranduil’s pale gold hair, but not trying to stuff them in his mouth. The mother actually wished he would.

“Not at all. We have had quite a delightful time together, your son and I.”

_If he tries to give my son another drop, I am going to break his wrist, so help me Eru._

“Say thank you and goodbye to King Thranduil, Arman,” said the mother.

Arman gave a happy gurgle, stood up on Thranduil’s lap and with tiny arms wide open, threw himself against the king’s chest and snuggled his little cheek against his neck.

And Thranduil had to fight against the lump that rose in his throat.

 

Legolas and Glorfindel returned in three days, glowing and triumphant from their expedition. The secret entrances marked in the ancient maps had still been accessible and the orcs had not even scented them. Based on their surveillance, the orcs probably numbered about two hundred and fifty, and the elf warriors had sketched new maps of the cavern system. The next few days would be spent planning the assault with the Greenwood guard.

After spending some time reporting all they found to Thranduil, Glorfindel returned to the guest suite for a long, well-scented bath. The caves had been so foul from orcs and bats that even though he and Legolas had washed thoroughly in the river once they were safely in the woods, their elven noses imagined a lingering stench for a long while after. As he sat on the bed towelling his hair dry, he recounted his adventure to Maeglin. The children, tired out from the day, were asleep in an adjoining room.

When he had finished, she told him about her day with the children, and ended with what Thranduil had done.

His damp hair glistened bright in the lamplight of the subterranean chamber, and the sculpted muscles of his bare, lithe torso gleamed as he turned towards her, tunic in hand. “Just two drops? That’s harmless, _melimë_.”

“Not according to a study done in the First Age—” Her eyes flashed.

He pulled the tunic over his head and raised an eyebrow at her. “Is this from that book that Idhren gave you?” Shortly after they arrived home from Lothlórien, Idhren had slipped her a book from the library titled _Principles and Practices for the Raising of Healthy and Whole Elf-Children_. Glorfindel had flipped through it and declared it paranoid parenting. “I have oft said it, and I will say it again: do not believe everything you read. One study says this, the next century, another study has contradictory findings. You know that.”

She glared at Glorfindel. “Any _amil_ would agree alcohol is not good for a developing elfling. Is _this_ the _nér_ who denied me even a sip of mead at Minas Tirith?”

“Oh, come on—they were in the womb then and their livers and brains were tiny little things. They are running around and far better able to handle it now. Did your father never slip you any? Ecthelion used to give me one secret sip at every feast from his cup.”

“Exactly! _Secret_ —and why? Because Itarillë would have _brained_ him is why.”

“Yes,” he conceded, “She was furious at him. But we are talking here about _two drops!_ If Thranduil was ladling it down Arman’s throat, I would throttle him myself. But a tiny taste of it will hurt him none. Do not overreact! You detest Thranduil. You would like nothing better than to shred the man’s hair with hedge clippers. And we both know how _that_ can affect your judgement, _ná_ _?_ So please do not blame every little problem in Arman’s development from this point onwards on two drops of Dorwinion. If he doesn’t talk, it will be because of the two drops—”

“—my father first gave me wine when I was _twelve_ , not two!!” she snapped.

“—and if he isn’t a loremaster like Quendingoldo, it will be because of the two drops—”

“—any dolt with half a grain of sense would know that two years old is _much_ too young—”

“—and if he runs off and marries a hobbit, it will be because of the two drops—” His eyes were laughing, and as he spoke, he hugged her around her again-slender waist and pulled her against him.

“—and he had no right giving intoxicating substances to my child without my permission and especially when I had objected,” she said angrily, breaking away from him.

“That is true,” said Glorfindel. “Thranduil _is_ an ass in that way.”

“And I caught him looking down the front of my dress.”

Glorfindel’s eyes flashed with outrage and his jaw set. “That misbegotten son of a misshapen _urco!”_

“ _Men!_ ” said Maeglin in disgust, throwing herself back onto the bed.

Then she heard herself.

She froze. And looked at Glorfindel out of the corner of her eye as she lay there, with her black hair spread about her. She bit her lip.

He looked at her with his hands on his hips, his blue eyes dancing with laughter.

“Let all Eä witness,” he began in a mock-declamatory voice to an imaginary audience, spreading out his left arm in a graceful flourish, “In this first year of the Fourth Age—”

“Damn you, Flower, I did not mean _anything_ by that—” She covered her face.

“—a watershed in the history of Maeglin Lómion—” he climbed onto the bed and caught hold of her by the hip as she tried to crawl away from him.

“It just came out! Will you stop being _such_ an ass—” They tussled, she pushed him back onto the bed, and pummelled his pectorals as she sat astride him.

“—a defining moment, as it were—” He caught hold of her wrists and pulled her down to him.

“Shut up, you idiot!” She squirmed half-heartedly as he playfully nuzzled her neck.

“—when, against all the brute oppression and lecheries of the idiotic _néri_ —” His eyes twinkled as his hands slid over her supple curves, groping her mercilessly.

“Not another word if you value being able to have any more children—” she growled, her knee taking position near his gonads.

 “—the Lord of the Mole didst cry out, in unison with all of Eä’s gentle _nissi_ —” He cheerfully continued, quite undeterred, flexing his hip and flipping her onto her back.

“Aaah!! I _hate_ you!” She tried to twist away but he pinned her down with his body, and captured her wrists again.

“—‘ _MEN!!_ ’” he concluded in tragicomic mimicry of her disgusted tone, and dissolved into fits of helpless laughter, as she squeezed her eyes shut and groaned.

“I’ll make you pay for this—” she began, but he stopped her mouth with a warm, masterful kiss.

He felt her body relax under his weight as she tangled her fingers in the heavy, silken locks of golden hair that fell across her face and breast, then slid her hands over the strong, hard muscles of his back. They were sinking more deeply into kisses that were building in heat and hunger when a sleepy little voice called from the inner room:

 _“Ammë, Atto_ , we’re hungry…”

Their lips pulled apart with a soft _pop_ and a sigh, and their eyes met in dismay.

Then came the faint creak of a door hinge.

With wry smiles, they turned their heads in unison to see two pairs of tiny eyes peeping out at them from the crack in the inner door, grey and blue.

“Just a moment, _yonyat.”_ As the parents reluctantly rose, the two tots had already run across the floor, and were pulling themselves up onto the big bed.

Four hours later, the two little whirlwinds had been fed, played with, bathed, told stories, tucked back into bed, and sung to sleep.

The parents flopped onto their own bed, and he rolled on top of her again and looked down into her eyes. They smiled at each other, and exchanged a gentle peck.

“Look,” he said. “I am sorry that I am going off to fight _urqui_ and leaving you holding the children. Just a week more, I promise. Then we shall go to Erebor and Dale for a fortnight, and you may talk to dwarves all day long about forges and furnaces and stones and ores, and debate ancient and modern techniques for making lethal weapons and shiny stones. I will take care of the babies. Is that fair?”

She lifted an eyebrow as she gave it serious thought. “Fair enough,” she decided airily.

“And I remain able to have more children?” With a mischievous smile he gently ground their hips together.

She looked stern. “Hmmm… for now.” She shifted her hips, tangled her legs with his, and with a firm hand pulled his head down to resume their kiss. 

 

In the end, it was far more than a fortnight. The family had a splendid summer in Dale and Erebor, in the course of which Maeglin did not steal Orcrist, the twins did not kill themselves jumping from Dale’s bell towers, and the dwarrow smiths were not too proud to let a she-elf share the techniques of Gamil Zarak and Telchar handed down to her by her father.  

They spent the end of summer back in Eryn Lasgalen, and, when autumn winds began to blow, departed for Imladris. Legolas was to journey with them to the edge of the Anduin plains, and he was radiant with excitement and happiness when he met them at the great foyer before the stone doors.

“Adar has just spoken to me. He has given his blessing for me to go to Ithilien next spring! With up to a hundred of the woodland folk, if I can find enough willing to go!”

“That is wonderful!” said Glorfindel.

“But what brought about his change of heart?” asked Maeglin.

“I have no clue. But he did ask me to give this to Arman.” It was a tiny bow and quiver set. “It looks identical to one he did give me when I was four years old. And,” he continued, “So that Aryo should not be left out, I found another one for him as well.” He pulled out another set.

“We will come to visit you in Ithilien so you may teach them how to shoot,” said Glorfindel.

“Rot! This from one who received the Lord Araw Tauron’s tutelage?” scoffed Legolas, as he ruffled the hair of his tiny cousins. “No pathetic excuses are needed. Just come to visit me.”

 _“Cû,”_ said Arman, bending the little bow in his tiny hands.

After a stunned silence, his parents and cousin went wild. “His first word!” “Say it again, Arman! _Cû!_ ” “Oh, that’s a great future as an archer he’s going to have.”

Arman was gazing upwards with huge blue eyes. He waved the little bow. _“Galu.”_

They all turned and looked up. Thranduil was watching them from a high window. They smiled and saluted him, and he acknowledged them with a royal nod of the head.

The Woodland King watched as they rode out, and the great stone doors swung shut.

The pain of his imminent loss contended with the joy of receiving his son’s smile and embrace again.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Mae tollen (S) – welcome

Gamut sanu yenet, Gimli Glóinul (Khuzdul) – well met, Gimli son of Glóin

Mas ledhiam (S) – where are we going

Iavas (S) - autumn

Yonyat (Q) – sons (two) [I was baffled as to the noun form for addressing two sons. This was the best I could figure out with my limited grammar. Thankfully, _dreamingfifi_ on the RealElvish forum says it is correct. Whew!]

Urco/urqui (Q) – orc, orcs

Pen dithen (S) – little one

Cû (S) – bow

Galu (S) - goodbye / blessings

 

 

* * *

_Some readers may dislike the way I portray Thranduil in this fic. Here are some necessary clarifications:_

_I like Thranduil and I thought I portrayed him quite sympathetically and did not make him a douchebag. I would be sad if you think him one._

_Thranduil loves and is devoted to his late Silvan wife. (She will be mentioned further three chapters from now.) He is a connoisseur of beautiful things, including women, and to him that in no way detracts from or compromises his commitment to and love for his wife, whom he loves wholly, as a person. Other women to him are useful (guards, servants, concubines) or ornamental (which is how he views Maeglin here). He is a Sinda ruling the Silvan, and like his sister he has embraced their culture in the area of sex, and for him he is able to separate sex from love/marriage as the Eldar absolutely cannot. He has both desire and love for his wife. He is able to have desire alone for the others, and still love her alone. Did he sleep around while she was alive? No. He does it now to assuage the ache and emptiness he feels at her loss. I’m not in support of this, but we all know individuals like him do exist. Do they grieve their women? Yes. Can they see anything wrong with what they do? No._

_As a fanfic writer, once I messed with the fact that sex = marriage for elves, I got thinking about how that would work at the level of the fëa. I don’t break with the canon that when two elves love each other, the act of sex bonds their fëar together eternally. The Valar understood this and LACE upholds it. My take on what could happen among the Avari who do not hold with LACE and have sex-without-love before marriage is that multiple partners messes with the nature of the marriage bond, and it would no longer be as strong as it could be if an elf had just one partner. There would not be the same strong psychic connection, the same level of utter intimacy, the ability to be One, as too many people have been in there already. But then, I figure that would not make their marriages any worse in quality than mortal marriages. Marriage for them would still be for the life of Arda and exclusive because that is in the nature of elves. Mortals who previously had multiple partners could also be faithful and committed once they settle down. So Silvan elves would just be settling for what we have. And that ain’t bad… is it?_

_And since I’m still on the roll with these ramblings… thanks for bearing with me… a bit on osanwë. I’m fascinated by it and I wish I had access to more of what Tolkien had to say about it. If you have resources on it, let me know. The little I have found has been titillating and frustrating. So I created my own rules for this particular fic: osanwë for all elves is for the most intimate of their relationships… spouses, close siblings, parents who are very close to a child, and most often when they are very young. Osanwë is a mind-gift stronger in certain individuals who have greater powers, like Finrod and Galadriel and Elrond. That enables them to use it with all individuals and non-elves, even those not close to them, and across distances._

_I am sure each of you has your own thoughts on all this!_

_Two more little things:_

_I figure that since elves celebrate begetting days and not birthdays, age would be counted from the begetting day not from birth. So when the elves say the twins are two-years-old, in our parlance it would be one-year-old._

_Elf babies hit their developmental milestones rapidly: "They grow slower than mortals though their minds are faster, learning speech before the first year. Their wills master their bodies quickly so they learn to walk, dance, etc by their first year. Elf Children at play would resemble fair happy children of men with little need for governing. Their words, and mastery of their bodies would make them seem older than they appeared in body. Might appear to be seven when actually in their 20’s, having adult size 50 and full maturity at 100." [Tolkien, J.R.R. (1993). Morgoth’s Ring, The History of Middle Earth Vol. 10.] Yup, note that bit about “little need for governing”. Unfortunately, Glorfindel’s younger son is as hyperactive as he was as a child, so in these first couple of years quite a bit of “governing” is called for._

_My thoughts on the masking or cloaking spells cast by Galadriel over Glorfindel’s parentage: she was able to exert them over a certain distance, and they were good for his first life in Beleriand. When he returned to the Hither Lands, she renewed them when they met shortly after in Ost-in-Edhil and maintained them for as long as she remained in Ennor. Unfortunately, she focused the spells on masking only Glorfindel’s connection with her own siblings and herself, and whether it was oversight or intentional, she did not extend it to Rîlel, which is why Oropher was able to recognize his dead wife in her firstborn immediately, especially as the connection between spouses is so deep. Now Galadriel has sailed, the spells are pretty much lifted. It could be that Finrod or herself could choose to cast a new spell if Glorfindel goes to Aman. It is unlikely Finrod would want to or allow her to. I have not given this any deeper thought, but such wizardry would be related to the “arts” that Finrod used to make eleven beautiful edhil and one adan appear like gross orcs enough to deceive a maia (since Sauron suspected them only because of their actions, not from their appearance)._


	29. The Last Elflings in Ennor

Still hiccupping, Erestor lifted a trembling hand to the cold compress on his forehead and winced.

“I promise you I did not put them up to this, Erestor,” said Glorfindel, as the light of his healing song faded. “I am so very sorry for their behaviour.” He gently tucked a blanket around the ailing elflord. “Punish them in any way you see fit.”

“Just— _hic!_ —keep them— _hic!_ —away from me,” moaned poor Erestor weakly in between hiccups, now at least able to talk a little, though it hurt. His diaphragm and abdominal muscles ached abominably. Then, covering his mouth, he made a frantic gesture. Glorfindel quickly held up the bedpan and Erestor rolled to his side and retched miserably into it, still hiccupping.

Softly singing, Glorfindel laid a hand on poor Erestor’s back and sent a surge of healing warmth through him.

Once the retching fit subsided, Erestor rolled onto his back again and stared bleakly at the ceiling of the healing hall. The millennia-old carving of Estë gazing down appeared to be smirking rather than solicitous. Damn Thavron the artisan.

Glorfindel replaced the compress on Erestor’s aching brow, then held a straw and a cup to his mouth. “Take just a small sip to rinse out the mouth… We shall administer another dose of the antidote once you can keep it down.”

Erestor managed the small sip. Then, looking pale and delicate, he sank back into the pillows, closed his eyes and groaned softly. Glorfindel patted him on the shoulder sympathetically, then rose and left, passing the bedpan to Thalanes the healer as he exited the treatment room, looking like a lion on the prowl.

The onset of the hiccups had been sudden, and so violent and unrelenting that Erestor had been unable to even utter a word in between. Twenty minutes into breakfast, the twin Lords of Imladris, looking decidedly guilty, had needed to carry their advisor to the hall of healing, where he had lain miserably in bed, hiccupping with such force that he soon developed severe abdominal, chest and head pains. Since he was unable to swallow either the antidote or the sedative that Thalanes had prepared, she could only diffuse _athelas_ for him to inhale and sing healing until Glorfindel arrived home from his patrol of the valley and took over. Erestor had never been gladder to see the balrog slayer and be a recipient of his healing power. He was seething, all the same.

That it was all the father’s fault, there could be no doubt. As the advisor hiccupped wretchedly, he was recalling every prank the balrog-slaying hero had ever played on him, from their days at Gil-galad’s court in Lindon to the closing years of the Third Age…

The tall hero of Gondolin closed the door of the healing hall quietly behind him. His bright golden hair, cascading down his back in heavy waves, glowed in the hallway with the radiance of a sunrise. His beautiful face, normally so joyous and laughing, was stern enough to put terror in the heart of even Gothmog, and his azure blue eyes smouldered with anger. He strode down the hallway unerringly, sensing where his prey lay.

 _“Yonyat!!”_ bellowed the Commander of Imladris, his mighty shout reverberating through the empty corridors of the great house.

Outside the Hall of Fire, two little pairs of knees quaked as their owners contemplated running away to the Harad as mercenaries or joining pirates off the Umbar coast. As the last echoes of their father’s voice died away, they came forward, their deep-gold and silver-gold heads hung in guilt.

The golden warrior glared down sternly at the two little heads bowed before him, their bright hair tumbling past their shoulders to their waists. The twins stared penitently at their small, booted feet on the marble-tiled floor.

“Have you _no sense?”_ demanded the father in a biting voice. “I am _ashamed_ of the pair of you.”

“But… but _Atto_ …” “ _You_ did it to Salgant—”

“ _Lord_ Salgant to you.” The father’s voice was cutting.

“ _Lord_ Salgant… sorry, _Atto,_ ” they mumbled.

“I had the brains to do my research first and give a _pinch_ of powder, _yonyat_. Just enough for Lord Salgant to hiccup two hours through the feast and recover in time for his performance.” By the time the effects had worn off, the Lord of the Harp had been ravenous both for the delicious dinner he had missed and for Glorfindel’s blood. But the stocky elflord had still been well enough to make a lengthy appeal to Princess Idril and the King for the most severe of punishments for their young ward… and he was certainly well enough to warble and pluck his way through three songs before the night was over.

“But—but Elrohir said—” “He and Elladan gave you _two drams_ of powder—”

 _“I_ could take it, _yonyat,_ ” sighed the mightiest warrior in Middle Earth. “And even then, I was hiccupping the whole day in the halls after Lord Elrond treated me. You may be sure that Lords Elladan and Elrohir received a severe punishment from their _Atar_ after that. Oh, they omitted _that_ significant little detail, did they? Well, even so you should have used a little intelligence and considered that Lord Erestor is _not me._ You have inflicted tremendous distress and suffering on the poor man. Eru alone knows how long he will take to recover fully. It was badly done, boys. Badly done.”

Aryo was pale. Arman’s chin was wobbling and his blue eyes were swimming with contrite tears. Just as Glorfindel’s had done as he had stood penitently before Turgon in the king’s study at Nevrast... that had been after painting Salgant’s face blue with a dye that proved harder to wash off than he had realized.

“Did you know,” said the father grimly, “that there have been documented _fatalities_ from overdoses of this herb? Especially among the mortal populations.”

A tear ran down Arman’s little cheek.

“Will he be all right?” Aryo asked anxiously in a small voice, nervously twisting the ends of his golden locks with his fingers.

 

Erestor was indeed all right, after two days in the healing hall. He remained delicate for another week, and kept to his own bed for much of that time. Once he felt less frail, he set a series of fiendishly difficult mathematics problems for the elflings to solve, and gave them each five essays on First Age history to be submitted before Tarnin Austa. He ordered that these be submitted to him through their parents and that the twins keep a radius of two _rangar_ away from him at all times. And Elladan and Elrohir had solemnly sworn not to put any more ideas into the elflings’ heads.

For good measure, the twins’ parents assigned them extra household duties. The elflings’ cheeks were flushed rosy as they used shovels taller than themselves to turn the row of compost heaps at the bottom of the kitchen garden, where almost all the refuse of the household went.

“That should do it,” grunted Aryo, with a last heave of the shovel.

“Do you think _Atto_ might change his mind about letting us go to Bree?” asked Arman wistfully, as they sprinkled handfuls of brown twigs, leaves and fragments of tree bark on top of the compost piles.

“I wouldn’t push my luck. We got away easy this time.”

They proceeded forlornly to the woodshed to chop firewood for the kitchen.

The twins were fifteen this year, and looked like six-year-old mortals. They had been trained in these tasks since they were tiny, for almost all in the household took turns in doing these duties now that only twenty-three of them were left in Elrond’s great house. As their punishment, the elflings were to take over the compost heap and firewood duties of the household for two whole months. Nor were they to descend to the valley village to play with their friends. And they would miss going to Bree for the summer fair. Bree was now a booming centre of trade on the route between Arnor and Gondor. To the twins, it meant the excitement and gaiety of large, festive crowds, and candies and games at the fair, and being made much of by friendly mortals since they were the last two elflings in Ennor.

The little fellows staggered into the kitchen under huge armloads of firewood. Glorfindel grinned at the sight of them as he stirred a pot of stew. “Boys, just leave it in the shed. I will carry it in.”

“No sweat, _Atto!”_ “We’re strong!” “Like _you!”_

“Buttering up _Atar_ , are we?” Glorfindel smiled as he tasted the stew and added a sprinkle of salt. “No, you are not going to Bree.”

They sighed, crestfallen.

“It has been a _month.”_ “We have been _so_ good, _Atto.”_

“Really. Have you finished all the tasks Erestor set you?”

“Just one essay left.” “The causes of the fall of Nargothrond.” “And three more math problems.” “ _Wickedly_ tricky math problems.” This last from Arman with another deep sigh, math not being his forte.

“Hmm… I tell you what. Finish off the essay and the math—no careless mistakes or sloppiness, mind you—and you may go to the village to play. Just for today.” As they joyously made a dash for the kitchen door, he called after them, “And no copying each other’s work. Your _Amil_ and I _will_ be able to tell.”

Four hours later, the two boys were racing each other along the banks of the Bruinen towards the village, and Glorfindel and Maeglin were sitting on the bench outside the smithy reading their offspring’s assignments.

“Arman has your handwriting.” Maeglin shook her head, looking at the flowing but loosely-scrawled Tengwar.

“Aryo has your brain,” said Glorfindel, showing her a brilliantly executed mathematics equation in Aryo’s paper. Heads together, golden and black, they admired the economy and elegance with which their firstborn had managed to solve, in three steps, an equation that usually took eight.

“How is Arman’s Nargothrond essay?” she asked.

“Uhh… I would give him credit for creativity,” the father said, diplomatically.

“In other words, Erestor would hate it.”

“He would love Aryo’s. Cogent, coherent, strong grasp of cause and effect. Let’s face it. Aryo is a typical Noldo, Arman is a Sinda.”

“Oh? Since when do you stereotype your sons?”

“Don’t you think our boys fit the types? Aryo is gifted in craft and scholarship, Arman in woodlore and music and singing—”

“I inherited my craft from my _father_ , not my mother. And Arman has a gift for crafting jewels almost as fine as Enerdhil’s. I can see it. ”

“Aryo has that fire of Finwë’s line in him. Arman is gentle and playful.”

“None of this has anything to do with being Noldorin or Sindarin. Surely you can see that Aryo takes after me, and Arman after you.”

The great warrior gave her a wounded look. “Are you saying I lack our great-grandfather’s fire?”

“Probably only as much as your father and grandfather. Too much Telerin and Vanyarin blood, love.”

“And are you calling me a poor scholar?” he demanded indignantly.

“Well… Quendingoldo did tell me you could never keep still during lessons.” She smirked. The loremaster was two years older than the warrior and had been his classmate at Nevrast.

“Because they were _boring._ And a little restlessness has no bearing on the quality of my scholarship. Quendingoldo may have bested me in the histories and in philosophy and classical lore, but I’ll have you know I beat him in singing. And math. _Hah!_ He never told you _that,_ did he?” He folded his arms and looked down his slim, shapely nose at her.

She smirked fondly at him. “Don’t pout, love.”

“Am _not_ pouting.”

With a sly smile she elbowed him.

With a sidelong glance and a wry little smile, he elbowed her just enough to knock her off the bench.

In the next instant, they were wrestling and tickling each other and laughing on the ground, and as their sons’ papers went dancing away on the summer breeze, they hurriedly got to their feet and chased after them.

Half an hour later, Erestor was eyeing the slightly crumpled, grass-stained papers left on his study desk with distaste. “Hmph! Elflings.”

 

A regular flow of traffic between Arnor and Gondor passed through Imladris valley in those days: King’s troops, officials, traders, and common folk seeking new lands in this time of peace.

Following the exodus of the Imladrim to the west, many dwellings in the valley had lain abandoned. Those that remained were Sindar and Nandor and Avari still reluctant to undertake the great journey. The fields further from the great house lay untended.

Seeing the valley of Rivendell so fair, with fertile fields lying untilled and fallow, and meadows with sweet grass for grazing, and fair cottages sitting empty and deserted, the first mortals had begun to stay. It had only been a matter of time. A small settlement of _edain_ grew in the south of the valley along the banks of the Bruinen, growing in number with each year. They accepted the Lordship of Elladan and Elrohir over the valley. At times, they sought smithing and healing services up at the Great House, or brought animal hides for tanning since no one produced leather as soft and fine as the elves. They paid with their crops and animals. At other times, the household went to them to buy such produce as they did not grow or rear themselves, such as the grain crops.

And the _edain_ had children. As the twins reached their fifteenth birthday, there were already a dozen little mortal lads and lasses of different ages and sizes. Whenever they had time between lessons and training and chores and hunting trips, Aryo and Arman would run down to the village to play.

On this summer day, finally free, the twins’ eyes sparkled bright when they found their friends filling pig’s bladders and lengths of cow gut with water at the duck pond. As the war of water missiles broke out with much laughter and shouting, Aryo spotted an unfamiliar girl reading by the pond under the shade of a tree.

The twins had learned early that mortals were no match for the speed, strength and skill of elflings. To keep play going, they held back and slowed down—without making it look apparent—for their desire here was friendship. If it was challenge they sought, they played with their father and with each other. Thus Aryo had leisure, even as he stayed in the game, to examine the newcomer who sat with feet dangling in the cool water: a girl with brown curls, her head bent over a yellowed book with a brown cover. He could only see the long brown lashes of her lowered eyes, the curve of her rosy cheek. He was drawn by how intently she looked at her book. He wanted to see her face.

So when a pig’s bladder came to his hand, he hurled it at her, and it burst upon her dress.

Glowering ferociously, the girl stood up in the shallows of the pond with her book sodden in her hand, and her dress half-soaked.

Aryo grinned at her, gazing entranced at angry eyes of brown honey, at a sweet mouth twisted into a scowl in a heart-shaped face, at a charming upturned nose. Moving away from the others, he walked up to her as she climbed onto the bank. Barefoot, she was taller than him by a head. “What is your name? Mine’s Aryo—”

Honey-brown eyes flashed as she gave him a shove in the chest.

And Aryo found himself lying on his back in the knee-high shallows of the duck pond, sputtering and coughing, gazing at the blue sky and white clouds swirling above, and quite in love.

The following day, Aryo returned to seek his brown-haired girl out. He had dragged Arman with him to follow her to her home the day before and seen which cottage she had returned to. Today, fortune smiled upon the older twin. As her father repaired the roof of the cottage they had newly occupied, the girl was seated on a bench under a tree stitching a shirt.

She raised her head, saw the shining golden elfling and resumed her sewing.

“May your morn be good,” he said in his best Westron. “I am truly sorry I ruined your book yesterday. I brought you two others.” On the twins’ bookshelves were some Westron books that had belonged to Estel or Bilbo. Aryo had brought her a collection of folk tales of Númenor, and a fair translation of the _Quenta Silmarillion_.

She set down her sewing as he held them out to her. She took them reverently. Began to flip through one, and frowned at the words. He gazed at the light freckles sprinkling her upturned nose, and thought them wondrously charming.

“Who taught you to read?”

“My grandda before he died,” she said. “I know but a little.”

“I can teach you.”

She looked down at the golden-haired child with amused condescension.

“I am fifteen this year. I read very well,” he said haughtily.

She laughed. “Fifteen? And you no bigger than my baby brother that’s just turned six!”

“Elves grow different than mortals,” he said, drawing himself as tall as he could. He was already tall for his age. Many of his household said so. He might be as tall as his father one day. He sat next to her on the bench and looked up into her soft brown eyes. “How old are you?” he asked.

“I am ten next week.”

“Please accept this gift as for your birthday, then. So… am I forgiven?”

She smiled and showed a dimple. “If you can teach me to read, elfling.”

 

Five _coranári_ later, Glorfindel walked out of the main doors of the house and gave the long, low fluting whistle that was his call to his sons. Arman came jumping lightly down from a tree and raced to Glorfindel with a wide grin.

“A fine day, today. Want to go for a ride?”

“Oh yes, _Atto_!”

“Where is your brother?”

“Oh, he’s in the _atani_ village visiting his _melissë_.”

Glorfindel stared at his secondborn. “His _what??”_ the father sputtered.

 

“Good day, Mistress Hawthorn. Is Faelinn at home?”

The farmer’s wife smiled as the elfchild appeared at the gate of the vegetable patch, his grey eyes glittering and his golden hair gleaming bright even on this overcast day. Over the past five years Faelinn’s little friend had become a familiar sight on their farm and in their cottage.

“You just missed her, young master.  She has gone to fetch water.”

With a radiant smile of thanks, the elfling raced lightly down the path towards the Bruinen, golden tresses flying.

His face darkened when he saw who was with Faelinn on the riverbank, trying to carry her pail of water for her. Birn Rowan was sixteen that year, tall and burly with light-brown curls. He and the twins had been playmates when younger, but Aryo’s cordial feelings toward him had quite faded earlier this year when he noted Birn’s new interest in Faelinn. For Birn had not failed to notice Faelinn’s blossoming bosom and how pretty her figure was beneath the stiff, plain dresses she always wore. Besides, now Aryo barely reached up to his ribs, Birn literally spoke down at him, and annoyed the elfling by mussing his beautiful golden hair with a large, careless hand.

Aryo watched in disbelief as Birn now laughingly put his arm around Faelinn’s waist and pulled her to him clumsily while she protested with half a laugh and pulled away.

The next thing Birn knew, he was lying on his back on the riverbank, staring into blazing grey eyes, and an enraged elfling was sitting on him.

“Hands to yourself, you lumpish boar-faced lout!” snarled the elfchild.

“And who are you to say so, you meddlesome elf-pup?” growled the strapping lad, seizing hold of the child.

The two rolled in the dust trading blows and insults while Faelinn shouted above the commotion.

“Stop it, Birn! Stop! He’s just a little boy! You’ll kill him!” Then she fell silent with her mouth open as a tall beautiful elf with flowing golden hair swiftly separated the two combatants, pulled them to their feet, and held them apart.

 _“Aryo! Ásë nuhta!!”_ said the tall, shining elf sharply. Aryo, who had still been trying to lunge at his adversary, obeyed and stood still, but there was fire in his eyes and his nostrils flared.

A moment later, Arman ran up and threw his arms around his still angry twin.

Glorfindel checked the swollen cheek and bloody nose of the young _adan_. “I apologise for my son’s behaviour,” he said in Westron. “If you will allow me. . .”

Overawed by the shining elflord whose blue eyes fixed on him so calmly and so penetratingly, and who towered over him by more than a head, the young mortal stood still while Glorfindel placed a hand lightly on his face. The lad felt a coolness and a tingling sensation, and a cessation of pain.

“How do you feel?” asked Glorfindel.

“Fine, Lord Glorfindel. Thank you,” Birn mumbled, feeling abashed.

“Aryo,” said Glorfindel quietly in Quenya. “Apologize to Birn.”

“But he—” Fire blazed still in the child’s eyes.

“No ‘buts’! Apologize!”

“ _Atar_ —”

“ _Arinnáro Finyon Laurefindelion!_ Say you are sorry!”

“I’m sorry, Birn,” said Aryo in a stifled voice, still trembling with anger.

Birn nodded his head in acknowledgement, but did not meet the eyes of the elfchild half his size.

“Tell your father we at the House thank him for the oats and barley he sent this morning,” said Glorfindel to Birn, dusting off his shirt for him.

“Yes, milord.” With an awkward bow, Birn walked away with as much pride as he could muster.

Glorfindel turned back to his lovelorn son, who had his twin standing on one side of him and the _adaneth_ bending over him on the other. Aryo had a blackened eye and a split lip which Faelinn was dabbing with a corner of her apron. The boy’s eyes were still glinting with sparks of anger and injustice.

“How could you just let him go, _Atar_?” he demanded of his father. “He behaved abominably! He insulted and took advantage of Faelinn!”

“I saw you attack him, Aryo!”

“I was protecting Faelinn!” cried out Aryo. “Would you not protect _Ammë_ if anyone sought to insult her?”

“Your _Ammë_ is more than capable of protecting herself against anyone who attempts to insult her.” Maeglin would likely castrate them, thought Glorfindel. “But I would give my life to protect her from any harm.”

The father reached down to touch his son’s face with a healing hand. As he did so, he said gently, “But the young man and young woman did not look as though they were in conflict with each other, Aryo. It looked quite amicable to me.”

Glorfindel turned to the maiden who was listening with fascination to the exchange in Quenya and trying not to gawk at the elflord like a fool. Like all in the valley, she knew Glorfindel, but was quite dazzled by the beauty of the tall, glowing elflord at such close quarters. In Westron, the elflord said, “Young maid, was any insult or injury done to you by young Birn?”

“Oh no. Birn was only playing the fool, sir,” Faelinn managed to say, feeling a little weak at the knees. “It was harmless. We’ve known each other since young. It was nothing.” She looked at Aryo with a smile. “But I think my little friend very gallant for defending my honour.”

Aryo flushed. Glorfindel picked up the bucket of water, and as they walked back up the path, he spoke to the lass about her parents, their farm, her brothers and sisters, and where they were from before they came to the valley. Faelinn was holding Aryo’s hand as she might a small brother, and Arman was making faces and rolling his eyes as he skipped along behind them.

Back at the great house, Glorfindel told Maeglin about their son’s romance. “And I thought we would not have to worry about this for another thirty years at least,” he said, smiling wryly and shaking his head. “A passing infatuation, I should think.”

Maeglin sighed. “I hope so. But that child feels things too intensely.”

“Just like one of his parents,” he said, pulling her onto his lap.

“I swear I know not what you mean.”

“I did not say I meant you.”

They kissed, eyes closed, then playfully nipped each other’s lips.

“The life expectancy of the average _adaneth_ is sixty-five,” she murmured against his lips. “He would watch her grow old and die soon after he comes of age.”

They pulled away from their kisses and sat in silence just thinking of it.

“Let us go visit Legolas in Ithilien,” Glorfindel said. “We can ride with Elladan and Elrohir.” Arwen was expecting another daughter—her fifth—and her brothers were leaving for Gondor the following week.

“I shall send Legolas a message right away,” Maeglin said, getting off Glorfindel’s lap.

 

The white sun blazed hot and dry upon the City of Kings. Three boys, ranging in age from nine to twelve, lounged on some barrels in the shade of the Othram, the black outer City Wall. They were handsome lads, attired in midnight blue and silver livery, and pages to one of the King’s chief advisers. In the shadow of ancient buildings lining cobbled streets were makeshift stalls and vendors offering all manner of wares from roast meats on skewers to cooking pots to fortune telling.  One boy elbowed another in the ribs.

“Eh, get an eyeload of _those_ two pretties.”

A golden glow in the shadows drew the eye to two small, slender creatures making their way through the bustling crowd of the bazaar in the First Circle of the city, fair hair cascading brighter than any gold or silver down their backs. As the two unearthly little beings stopped to watch a puppet show, the Gondorian boys caught a glimpse of delicate, perfectly-proportioned features and bright, glittering eyes in translucently glowing skin. One lad gave a long, low whistle. “Upon my soul! Those are beauties to rival the Queen!”

“They are _elves_ all right! _Little_ dainty elves!” The boys’ eyes gleamed with excitement as they espied the pointed tips on the small shell-pink ears. They abandoned their spot along the wall and began to follow.

“I didn’t know they had little ’uns,” said the carrot-topped youngest, earning himself a clout on the head.

“Of course they must have, idiot! Where else do you think they come from?”

The elf twins had stopped to watch a muscular, dark-skinned Southron juggling knives.

Arman was unimpressed. _“He’s not that good. Atto can do better.”_

 _“A hundred times better,”_ Aryo replied with scorn. “ _Oh look! Candied fruit.”_

They stared wistfully at the colourful piles of candy, regretting they had not asked their parents for some of the small silver coins called _Tharni_ that they saw exchanging hands.

They smelt the man before they heard him—and that was quite something, as there were myriad pungent bodily odours assailing them on all sides from the market crowd. It was the scent of a perfume heavy with musk.

“Candies for you, little beauties?” said a voice in strangely-accented Westron.

Startled, they recoiled slightly from a hand which appeared before their faces, pink squares of a confection dusted with white sugar on its palm. They looked up at the brown-robed figure with a crimson sash around its waist. The lean, weather-beaten face and grizzled beard were not unhandsome, for a mortal, and he had all his teeth, but there was a wily foxiness about his pale-blue eyes and smile that made Aryo’s hackles rise.

“Well—” said Arman uncertainly. At least the hand and its fingernails looked clean, unlike those of many other mortals they saw around them.

“No, thank you, sir,” Aryo said firmly in Westron, taking Arman by the elbow and pulling him away.

_“Aryo, did not those candies look good?”_

_“I mistrust him.”_

They wove through the crowd to another part of the market, pausing to watch a parrot doing card tricks. If they heard stray comments about their beauty or speculations about their gender, they ignored them, for they were used to such, if not within Imladris, then whenever they had gone to Bree.

“Nay!” scoffed a young voice close behind them, in Westron. “ _Boys_ those cannot be!”

“They dress like lads,” said another, reasonably.

“Who knows how elves dress? We don’t know what they have in them breeches.”

“Hey, elflings! Be you lads or lasses?”

Not an uncommon question, but the tone offended their Finwean pride. The elflings chose to ignore them, and walked on.

“Hey! Be you deaf?” “Oh, they can hear well enough.” “Ooo, such dainty, pretty little things!” “Think you we can pet them?” A snigger. “They would make fair pets!” “Yea! Wonder if they be hard to feed?” More sniggers. “I’ll have me the sweet one on the left.”

Aryo’s hands clenched into fists.

_“Just ignore them, Aryo. They’re only children. Come, let’s hurry on.”_

 “Come now, pretty girls! ...or pretty boys! Why so proud?” “Too high and mighty for mortals, are ye?” “We won’t besmirch your honour, sweet maids!” “Though tempting it is, to see what’s in those fine breeches of yours!” They guffawed.

 _“Aryo, ignore them. Let’s go back to Ammë at the Great Gate.”_ Arman pulled on his twin’s arm, seeing a look in Aryo’s eyes that spelled trouble.

At that moment, the youngest mortal boy reached out a hand and grabbed a handful of pale silvery-gold elven hair. The younger twin cried out in shock more than pain.

The mortals were not prepared for the small fury that flew at them with fell-fire in his grey eyes and golden hair flying, for the astonishing strength and speed of those small fists and knees and feet. Before they knew what hit them, one was on his knees, bent double and retching from hard punches to the stomach, another was rolling on the ground grabbing his crotch, and another was being choked by the elfling hanging onto his back, arms tightening around his neck like a vice.

“Aryo, let him go! Stop it, Aryo! You’re hurting him!” cried Arman in Quenya as he tried to pull his brother off the boy’s back.

“That’s enough!” said a young, stern voice that had just broken. A tall boy tried to separate Aryo from his victim. “Valar! You’re strong! Come on, _mellon_ — _daro!_ Do you want to kill the scamp?”

He was speaking in Sindarin. That seemed to snap Aryo out of his trance.

“Louse!” Aryo snarled in Westron, and abruptly released his victim, who stood a head taller than himself. The twelve-year-old gasped and wheezed and clutched at his throat.

The tall boy who spoke Sindarin looked in wonder at Aryo, at flaming grey eyes and battle fury in the face of a child so small. He kept a hand on the elfling’s shoulder lest he fly at his victim again, and felt the blond still trembling with rage. “Easy now! By Elbereth, you’re quite a fighter!”

Aryo blinked as he looked up into grey eyes and a young, noble face, still smooth and beardless, framed with flaxen hair rare among the men of Gondor. He wore the black and silver livery of the Citadel, emblazoned with the White Tree on the front of his surcoat.

“Are you one of the guests of the King?” the tall boy of Númenorean stock asked the elfling, this time in Westron. “I heard some elven guests arrived yesterday from Rivendell.”

Aryo nodded, shame and regret flooding him in the wake of his wrath. His taunters had only been children, far younger, though larger, than he. They had not deserved this. He had completely lost control, in a way that frightened himself.

The three young mockers had heard the tall boy, and they were by now back on their feet, looking highly alarmed. “We meant no harm, Elboron,” pleaded one, still clutching at his midriff in some pain. “Just larking around—”

“—Wanted to be friends,” wheezed another, a hand still on his throat. “We’d not seen elflings afore.”

“You fools!” said Elboron severely. “You might have guessed him to be a guest of the King and Queen, here for the princess’ naming.”

“Please, Elboron—do not tell our fathers. Or your father, or the King.”

The one who had been kicked in the nuts, a little green and unsteady on his legs, tried to look brave and nonchalant and said nothing.

Aryo was feeling truly sick by now with guilt and remorse, realizing how his wrath had been wholly out of measure to the insult received. His lip quivered at the thought of how horrified his father would be. “I am sorry. Truly sorry,” he said in Westron to the three boys. “The blame is mine, and I shall tell the King so, if need be. I am sorry for your hurt. And if anyone is to be punished, it is I.”

“Our words were foolish, and caused offence,” said the boy who had been punched in the midriff. “For that we humbly seek your forgiveness.”

“And I yours. Let bygones be bygones.” And Aryo and the boys bowed to each other.

As the boys turned to leave, the youngest paused and asked Aryo hesitantly, looking abashed, “So… begging your pardon, but… _be_ you lad… or lass?”

Aryo smiled wryly at his curiosity. “I am a lad as yourself.”

That assuaged their hurt pride a little. The boys returned half-smiles, and disappeared into the crowd.

The tall, flaxen-haired young Númenorean smiled at Aryo. “I am Elboron, son of Faramir, and squire-in-training to King Elessar, at your service. By your hair, I would wager you are the son of the great Glorfindel!”

The elfling looked up at Elboron. He might be about thirteen or fourteen years old, thought Aryo. The twenty-year-old elfling barely reached the boy’s chest. “Yes, I am Arinnáro son of Glorfindel… _Ornor_ in Sindarin, but all call me Aryo. And my brother here is Arman, or _Orlin._ ”

“Aryo and Arman sound good to me,” grinned Elboron. “But where is your brother?”

“Why, right here—” Aryo looked about.

Arman was nowhere in sight.

The older brother’s first reaction was a flash of annoyance. “ _Arman?”_ He called out with his mind.

And called again.

There was nothing but silence.

 

“…ohgodshavemercygodshavemercy…” gibbered the mortal in a voice an octave higher than usual, his heart pounding madly from his wild sprint through the First Circle. His pale-blue eyes were riveted on the violet ones looking down at him, as white fire flickering eerily in their depths.

“Stop that babbling and answer my question, _adan._ ” A voice like musical thunder broke the mortal’s trance of terror. The strong, shapely hand at his throat tightened almost imperceptibly. A crackling energy sharply prickled the mortal’s skin, as power emanated from the golden god.

The mortal licked dry lips. “Elfling? Oh great one! I know naught of any elfling,” he managed to wheeze. His pale-blue orbs nervously flicked over the unearthly beauty of that luminous face, the translucent flawlessness of skin that seemed lit from within, the chiselled harmony of fine features now set in the sternest of frowns. They were almost mesmerized by the golden glory of the hair that lit up the dark alleyway as it flowed over his captor’s shoulders.

“Wrong answer.” The tall elf loomed over the brown-robed mortal. “If you think you can lie to me, slaver, you are mistaken.”

Pale-blue eyes bulged slightly as the fingers tightened around his throat. The weight of the bag of gold _Castar_ he had so recently been gloating over was of scant comfort now as it pressed against his thigh through his brown robe. “Slaver?” The mortal managed to look terrified and indignant at the same time. “You—you mistake me for another, O great lord!”

“Does he now, Goblo?” said a deep voice to his left. “You have some nerve, coming back to the city. It’s the dungeons for you again.”

A tall mortal lord and a beautiful elf lady, both raven-haired, had arrived belatedly. They were breathless from running and looked grim.

“I am a reformed man, Prince Faramir! Search my house, search my shop. You will find nothing!”

“I have no doubt of it, you sly fox. But you were seen with the boy, so where is he now?” Faramir remembered the man only too well from his last stint as Regent, for he oversaw the Kingdom each time King Elessar rode to war.

“We are wasting time,” snarled the dark elflady to the fair elflord. “Faugh! He stinks like a cheap Breelander whore! Take it from his head, or I am going to started slicing off fingers. _Where is my son?”_

Faramir Prince of Ithilien stared at the _elleth_ in some shock. He was in the city for the naming ceremony of the newborn princess, and he had been walking through the First Circle when he had come across his son with a distraught elfling missing his twin. Faramir had lost no time in sending word to Glorfindel, and accompanied the parents on their search. His first impressions of Glorfindel’s wife—quiet, elegant, a little aloof—did nothing to prepare him for her language, or for the ferocity and ruthlessness now displayed. And ferocity and ruthlessness were not qualities he had ever associated with elves, let alone a female one.

Glorfindel looked at his love in dismay. Never had he ever forced himself into another’s mind, and even in this moment of dire need he hesitated. It violated everything he stood for.

“I am a respectable tradesman!” protested Goblo, sensing hesitation and growing bolder. “This is an outrage!”

Obsidian eyes narrowed. “Do you think to hide the guilt that shows in your eyes, vermin? So be it. The little finger first.” Goblo heard the _snick_ of a blade being drawn, and involuntarily whimpered.

“No! Wait!” Glorfindel caught Maeglin’s wrist, his other hand still in possession of Goblo’s neck. His eyes gazed penetratingly into the mortal’s pale-blue ones. “I advise you not to resist, _adan,”_ he said grimly. “The more you fight it, the more this is going to hurt.”

He began to probe, and felt his gorge rise at the filth he encountered.

As the first of his mind barriers was breached, Goblo screamed in terror at this accursed wizardry. “ _Aieearrhh!!! No more!_ I’ll talk, _I’ll talk!_ But promise you will protect me!”

Glorfindel pulled back, exhaled in relief, and thanked Eru. A shudder of disgust passed through him, the taint lingering like a dunk into a cesspool.

 

Arman woke to the world lurching beneath him, the loud, rhythmic creaking of a wooden wagon, and the _clop-clop_ of heavy hooves on hard-packed earth. His head was groggy. And it hurt. A vile bitterness lingered in his mouth. The filthy rag gagging him made him want to retch. In the sweltering heat, his hair clung damp to his neck, and his clothes to his body. He struggled to remember what had happened. Aryo. A fight. The heavy scent of a musky perfume. A hand over his mouth, an arm clamped around his waist, a foul liquid forced between his lips.

He lay on his side. His hands were tied behind his back with rope. Through the narrow cracks between the wooden planks of the crate he was in, he could see sunlight. He gazed at thin slivers of white sky. Then he rolled onto his knees—the crate was just large enough for him to do so with ease—and peered out of a wider gap between the planks, breathing in fresh air through the opening as he did. He was startled to see golden eyes turn to look down at him indifferently. A black cat sat close by on another crate, its paws tucked under its body. _“Where are we?”_ he thought-asked the cat.

It was not in the cat’s nature to betray astonishment. Its ears pricked forward slightly, then it looked away. _“On the road, flea-brain.”_

_“But where are we going?”_

The cat ignored him. Just as Arman was beginning to despair, it said, _“The river.”_

 _“The Anduin? Why? Why am I here?”_ Through the gap in the wooden slats, he saw the high walls of the Rammas Echor, and a great gate, open in this time of peace to traffic all day long. Going by the sun, he quickly realized where they were. _“The South Gate?”_ Aryo and he could see that and the Anduin from their bedchamber window in the Citadel… and beyond, the still-forbidding range of the Ephel Duath towering. _“Is that the South Gate? Where am I being taken?”_

The cat looked annoyed. “ _Full of questions, aren’t you?”_ It rose to its four white-socked feet and sprang lightly onto another crate, then disappeared from view. All Arman saw through the gap was white sky and crates as the wagon jolted along. His heart sank.

 _“Please… please come back!”_ Arman begged. His stomach knotted as the wagon trundled through the gates and he watched the high walls recede and realized they were leaving the Pelennor Fields and all those he loved behind.

From elsewhere on the wagon, the cat’s thoughts came. _“How far must I go before it will silence you? Pest.”_

 _“Don’t go,”_ Arman pleaded. _“Please… you’re my only friend here.”_ He had never been separated like this from Aryo, from his parents before, never been out of reach of the thoughts of at least one of them. He felt such a desolation and emptiness in his young _fëa_ as he sank back onto the crate-floor that he began to cry, sobs wracking his little body. _And you the son of a warrior and a hero,_ chided a voice within. _Your Atto would never cry like a baby._

Arman fought down his tears.

He heard the sound of paws landing soft and sure on the next crate. “ _That’s better. No more mewling like a motherless kitten,”_ said the cat, sounding annoyed. “ _And let us be clear, Shiny: I am no one’s friend but my own._ ”

With his hands tied behind his back, Arman could only draw up his knees, and wipe his eyes and nose on his dusty breeches. _“All right,”_ he said to the cat, grateful it was back.

 _“Why are you here, you ask. Master must be anxious to keep you undamaged. The ones he puts alone in a crate to themselves are special goods. They fetch goodly prices on the block.”_ A golden eye looked through the gap in the crate and scrutinized the elfling. “ _Don’t know what he sees in you. Must be the shininess. Or the freak ears.”_

_“My ears are not freakish! Yours are pointed too.”_

_“Mine are fine ears for a cat, human freak. Master likes rare things. He was muttering that the Bharûg-kân would like you. Greedy bastard.”_

_“Who is or who are the Bharûg-kân?”_

_“You don’t know much, do you, Shiny? A lover of pleasure toys and pain. That is all you need to know.”_

Arman did not understand that, but it did not sound good.

_“Please—help me get free.”_

_“That’s hysterical. How could I? And even if I could… why should I?”_

Looking bored, the black cat leaped away.

And Arman was truly left alone.

As the road descended down to what he guessed was Harlond, the elfling was thrown against one wall of the crate. All his speed and skill as a fighter, trained in him since he was five, were of no use, and the confinement and helplessness were unbearable to him. He lay on the floor of the crate and kicked at the roof. It didn’t budge. He worried the ropes on his wrists, rubbed them against the wooden frame. But all he had achieved was raw, painful wrists by the time the wagon lurched to a halt and he heard the noise of the wharves and shouts in many tongues, as cargo was loaded and unloaded on the ships that must be there. His _Atto_ had told them just that morning how they would come here to cross the river to Ithilien, after the naming ceremony of the new princess.

His _Atto._ He was certain his father would find him…

The crates were beginning to be unloaded.

“Gently, fool! Don’t damage the goods.” A harsh voice in a strange accent.

Some grumbling ensued for a few moments.

“What cargo?” An officious voice.

“Fruits for the Harad,” the first voice grunted in reply to an official of the quays. As a crate of fruit was opened for inspection, Arman’s own crate was lifted from the wagon and he lay on the base to avoid being flung about. A sharp word was flung his way at the man carrying him, “Careful, you _brôkhaz!_ The fruits bruise easily.”

Then Arman heard a familiar voice, faint in the distance.

And it was singing, a fair and melodious sound amid the noises of the busy port.

_…Trevedithon nín laind ereb ciriel  
Aind i thuiad bo Falas Vedui…_

Arman’s heart gave a great leap. Even before he heard the soft, light, swift hooves of an elf horse ride past not too far away, he called out desperately, in thought: _“Legolas! Legolas! Edraith enni! Save me!”_

The elf horse had gone. Arman despairingly felt the rocking motion of an anchored ship as his crate was carried over a gangplank.

In a moment, Arman heard the light hooves return.

“Arman? Arman, is that you, _pen dithen?”_ called the well-known Sindarin voice, ringing clear above the noise of the port. _“Mas ci?_ Where are you?”

_“I’m in a wooden box going onto a ship! Save me, Legolas!”_

“You there! Put that box down. _Now!”_

“What the _kâguk-sar—?_ ” “Who the _phûzaksh_ –?” “It is the elfling’s father!” “Lord Legolas? What are you doing—?” “Stop him! Careful with that crate!”

Arman was jolted hard as his crate was thrown and landed violently on the deck of the ship. Dazed with pain, he heard steel slide out from scabbards, then an _adan’s_ scream and a loud splash. “Call the guards!” the panicked official was shouting. “Call the guards!”

The landing had bruised Arman but it had also broken his crate. As pandemonium broke out on the wharf, the elfling kicked open the damaged side and slid out. He had just scrambled to his feet when a burly Southron, grizzle-bearded and swarthy, leaped onto the ship and shoved away the gangplank. The slaver shouted at a Haradrin seaman what was presumably a command to hoist anchor and set sail. Arman ran for the railing, but it was too high, and his hands were still tied behind him. The ship began to pull away from the quay.

 _“Arman! Yonya!”_ Arman heard in his head

 _“Atto!_ ” Arman darted about the deck with lightning swiftness as the Southron lunged after him, harshly hurling what must be curses and profanities in the unknown tongue. There were two seamen—one steered them away from the quay, the other joined in the chase. As the ship rolled sharply, the elfling, not having use of his arms to balance himself, fell hard upon the deck and the slaver was upon him. A black furball suddenly hurled itself upon the slaver, spitting and scratching, and as the slaver raised his hands to defend his face, Arman rolled and got back upon his feet, and darted away.

The elfling had just ducked behind a pile of crates when the tall, golden elflord, shining white with power, landed with a flying leap almost soundlessly on the deck of the ship.

The black cat vanished up a mast. Master slaver and seamen froze, blood draining from their faces as they quailed in terror. Eyes blazing with white fire, Glorfindel towered over the Haradrim by two heads.

 _“Raz ûl-nurâg ish-khandû,”_ growled Glorfindel commandingly, managing to make the harsh syllables musical. “Back to the wharf right now.”

As the white-faced seamen frantically acted to steer them back to the quay, Arman ran to his father and Glorfindel swiftly removed his gag and the ropes that bound him, then lifted him and hugged him tightly.

“Zîrkan! Zîrkan!” And gibbering a litany of prayers, the Southron slaver prostrated himself abjectly at the elflord’s feet.

 

The Lord of the Elves of Ithilien could not stop grinning. “I think it so funny the scum thought you were their sun-god.” He had just crossed the Anduin on a ferry from Ithilien when Arman heard his song, for he was also headed to Minas Tirith for the naming ceremony.

“It was a good thing. Had they tried to fight, I might have been tempted to hurt them badly.” Glorfindel applied salve to Arman’s raw wrists as Maeglin cradled him against her body. Aryo sat with his face snuggled against his mother’s side, an arm hugging his twin’s waist.

The Gondorian guard had six slavers in chains—the Master and his five men—and the two seamen. Two were soaking wet, having been tossed by Legolas into the river, and three were slowly recovering from having been clouted unconscious by Glorfindel. Four of the men were Gondorians, the rest were Haradrim. They would all soon be joining Goblo in the dungeons of Minas Tirith.

“Filth,” muttered Maeglin in Quenya. “The depravity of the Afterborn… it is beyond comprehension.”

Legolas understood some Quenya by now, though he could not speak it. “It can be,” he said in Sindarin. “But I know many goodly and noble men, and it is by them I will choose to judge the race of men, not these scum. Like Faramir over there. And, of course, Aragorn.”

Faramir came towards the elves, his son at his side. “I am sorry for Arman’s ordeal, but it is well the villains were caught and the children rescued. The King will be glad to hear of it.” The contents of the three wagonloads sat huddled on the wharf—children from poorer sectors of the Lower City, and some from the townlands that lay within the Rhammas Echor. Packed three or four to a crate, they had been destined for the slave markets of Balarghat and Khartâri, two great cities of the Harad. Some would not have been missed. Others had families that would have sought them long but never known their fates. The master slaver glared sourly at the elf-family, and cursed himself for the moment he had succumbed to greed and paid Goblo the princely sum of twenty _Castar_ for the pretty elf-pet for the Bharûg-kân. Red scratches streaked his cheeks and hands.

As they began to head back to the city, Arman saw a sleek black shape slink behind some barrels on the quay.

“The cat!” Arman cried out, and ran after it, his whole family and Legolas following.

Golden eyes gazed up coldly and indifferently at the gathering of elves.

“Thank you for helping me,” said Arman.

_“The bastard hit me once, when drunk. I got my own back.”_

“If you return to the palace with us, the princesses would take good care of you,” said Aryo.

 _“Nay. I can make my way. There’s rats aplenty on this wharf.”_ It moved away, tail high.

“You could stay with me and my brother, and be our friend,” said Arman.

 _“I am no one’s friend. I know no loyalty. I shall have no Master, henceforth.”_ It leaped onto a wall. Its black, glossy fur shone in the afternoon sun and its golden eyes glowed. “ _Watch yourself, Shiny. Farewell.”_ And it vanished.

“That cat reminds me strangely of someone I once knew,” said Glorfindel to Maeglin, as they proceeded on the wide, paved road back to the South Gate, and was sharply elbowed in the ribs by his lady.

 

Legolas was dreaming of a white ship sailing through a starry sky when he felt something tickle.

As his azure-blue eyes wakened to consciousness, he saw a dark-brown, hairy, eight-legged creature sitting on his bare chest. It was about the size of his palm.

“Oh, please,” he said, sleepily. “You call _that_ a spider? Really?”

He allowed the arachnid to walk onto his hand, then deftly tossed it under his bed.

As two fair-haired elflings burst out from under the bed, startled and squealing, the Lord of the Ithilien Elves laughed merrily.

“Is that the best you can do?” He shook his head in disappointment as he pulled on a tunic. “Come, my young apprentices. Let me tell you what your father and I got up to when I was an elfling...”

Two little pairs of eyes sparkled bright over radiant grins.

 

* * *

Glossary

_Yonyat [Q] – dual vocative noun form for “sons”_

_Yonya [Q] – son_

_Melissë [Q] – female lover_

_Ásë nuhta [Q] –_ stop that

 _Finyon [Q] –_ Aryo’s mother name. (The meaning should be “clever one” according to the Quenya name generator I referred to, and I double-checked with _dreamingfifi_ on the translation forum at Real Elvish.)

 _Ornor & Orlin [S]_ \- Dang, how does one translate the twins’ names into Sindarin? I began with “Morning fire” = Aurnor. And since “aur” also means sunlight, and “glîn” is a gleam/glint/narrow ray of light, I got “Aurglin”. Then I consulted the Real Elvish translation forum, and discovered it should be “Ornor” and “Orlin”.

 _Trevedithon nín laind ereb ciriel / Aind i thuiad bo Falas Vedui dannol [S]_ = I will pass the wide waters lonely sailing. / Long are the waves on the Last Shore falling [This of course is from Legolas’ song in LOTR. Sindarin translation by Taramiluiel on [http://www.lotrplaza.com/archives/index.php?Archive=First%20Age&TID=55840](http://www.lotrplaza.com/archives/index.php?Archive=First%20Age&TID=55840) ]

Since there is next to nothing known of the languages of the Haradrim, I concocted my own words. I can only hope I have not insulted any extant language.

* * *

_**A fragment of my old draft that just didn't fit into this chapter anymore:** _

On hunting trips, Glorfindel taught the boys how to give Eru thanks for the life they took as they shot their prey. How to thank their prey too, for the gift of its life to feed theirs. How to kill no more than what was needed, and waste nothing. On this autumn day, they had a rabbit and three pheasants to feed the household for dinner. They were singing as they made their way back when Glorfindel shushed them.

“Listen.”

The howl of wargs from the northern pass.

“Get up high, and stay there!” He ordered his boys, pushing them towards the nearest tree.

Wargs did occasionally come into the valley now Vilya held them back no more. Glorfindel waited till his sons were sitting high in the tree, holding the rabbit and pheasants. Then he turned and walked towards the howling of the wargs. He spotted them bounding down the hillslopes. Nine in all. They looked lean and hungry.

The boys as usual had been fooling around on the way home and wasting arrows the way their father used to do, he thought ruefully – showing off by splitting a first shaft down the centre. That left Glorfindel with just four arrows against nine wargs, and his two hunting knives. No problem at all.

The warrior’s eyes were sparking white fire with anticipation. He moved purposefully towards the wolves, fitting an arrow to his bow as he did. Four wargs at the front of the pack fell in quick succession, an arrow in each. He then drew his knives and continued walking calmly towards the remaining five as they bounded towards him. He had slain three of them when he saw, with lurching heart, a blur of pale gold to his left at the periphery of his vision.

“Arman!!”

His younger son hurled himself at a warg, wielding his own hunting knife like a sword. In a flash, Glorfindel had caught the boy up by the waist and the warg lay dead with the balrog slayer’s blade in the side of his neck.

“ _Atto_ , I _had_ him! Put me down!” protested the child. But already the father had dropped him and was pulling out his blade and turning his head to the right, where he saw the last warg leap towards his elder son five yards away, as the child stood with his blade ready.

Both the father and the son’s blades sank into the warg at the same time. Just after the warg landed on the boy, going straight for the throat.

Glorfindel thought he had never felt such a terrible pang of fear and horror as when he saw his child thrown back upon the ground and the warg’s fangs sink into soft flesh.

“Aryo!!”

Heart pounding violently, Glorfindel lifted and pushed aside the warg’s foul, dying corpse. “ _Atto..._ ” whispered Aryo, his huge grey eyes dazed with shock and pain as he lay with his golden hair spread around him, spattered with both the warg’s blood and his own. Glorfindel felt fangs savaging his own heart as saw the bloody mess where neck met shoulder, but thanked Eru fervently that the artery had been missed. Arman fell to the ground by his twin, weeping. Glorfindel laid gentle hands on his older son’s deep-gold head and white light shone over the three as the elflord began to sing healing.

 

Both parents were seasoned warriors and had seen wounds far, far worse, but they were both pale as they sat by the bedside of their mauled child. The wound had been cleansed and treated and dressed, and Aryo now lay sleeping, his eyes shut because of the sleeping draughts. Maeglin tucked the blanket around him, then leaned over and stroked his golden head. Glorfindel sat in a chair next to her, holding Arman in his arms. Elladan, Elrohir, Erestor and Lindir quietly left the room.

Glorfindel replayed the scene in his mind. He should have killed off the wargs more swiftly, instead of taking his time. He thought of that moment the warg had leapt at Aryo’s neck, cursing himself for not being faster. Just one second faster. Maeglin leaned over to kiss him, reading his mind, then left the room with Thalanes to prepare materials and ointment for the next wound dressing. Father and sons were now alone.

The younger twin suddenly began to shake with sobs, tears pouring from azure-blue eyes.

“ _Atto_ , it’s all my fault… he came down only because I did.”

Glorfindel hugged him tighter and stroked his pale-gold head. “A warrior must always obey orders. If you’re told to fall back, you fall back. If to attack, you attack. And if to stay up a tree, you stay up.” There was the Commander’s sternness underlying his gentle voice. “But do not blame yourself, _pitya_. Aryo is going to be fine. And he chose to come down himself. You did not force him. You were wrong to disobey me, do you hear? But this—this is not your fault.”

“Aryo’s the good one,” Arman insisted, tears still trickling down his cheeks. “He would _never_ have come down. Except for me.” Glorfindel looked down at the pale golden head of the son so much like his own younger self. Remembered the hundreds of times he had never listened, had defied death and laughed lightly as he hurled himself into the path of danger. He could hear Ecthelion and Egalmoth and Rog sniggering at him from across the Sundering Sea.

“You can be good too, _pitya_ ,” was all the father said. “You will be from now on. Won’t you?”

The chastened child nodded, and buried his face in his father’s neck. 

 


	30. The Age of Men

“Is that the Queen?”

“No, fool! What would the Queen be doing on foot, with no guard, and in such plain raiment?”

“Well, they all look the same, these elves…”

If one thing can be said about the _atani,_ they do not all look the same. Eru must have a sense of humour to have created a species of such diversity of shapes and sizes and colours. They are mostly ugly, but in different ways.

I hate this city. I hate its people.

I move through the sweaty, stinking mass of _atani._ The reek of garlic and unwashed bodies almost makes me gag. Most of them clear a path for me, making way for that most rare and exotic of beings in Minas Tirith—an elf lady. Not all though. I have been groped thrice. I made sure the three swine who dared to do so peed in their pants and squealed like little girls for it. They may count themselves fortunate to still have all their extremities and their balls intact.

I greet with relief the short, sturdy, bearded figures at the Great Gate. Mortals too, but superior ones. They smell of earth and iron ore and coal smoke and pipeweed. How you hate that last scent... but it is, for me, the scent of childhood memories in the Ered Luin. Sitting at the feet of Telchar, Suthri and Aurvang, listening to them talk with my father into the night…

The new Great Gate of Minas Tirith is a wonder of mithril and steel, a thing of beauty and grace and strength. The Seventh Gate had been a labour of eight full months for me and all the smiths of my house. The _casári_ began work two _coranári_ after the War of the Ring and have taken twenty-one. It is understandable. The rebuilding of the rest of the city and the restoration of the townlands took precedence. And as mortals they waste so much time sleeping and eating.

The first stars are lighting the sky by the time we finish. We admire the magnificent gate as it shimmers softly, catching the starlight and the light of Rána, a thin sliver rising in the east. It is finally complete. The first undertaking of dwarves and elves—elf, rather—since the days of Eregion and Moria. And possibly the last.

The Regent of the Reunited Kingdom and several officials of the city have come to admire it as well.

“Magnificent!” exclaims Prince Faramir in awe. “The King would regret missing this moment. We will send word.”

Gimli beams with pride, and pats me on the shoulder as he speaks. “Dwarven skill and elven spells conjoined. Not Grond, nor black spell, nor fell might of any troll would ever breach this gate!”

“Indeed,” say I. “May it stand ten thousand years.” And I fall silent. There had been another gate, once, and magic had availed nothing. How casually the Abhorred One had delved within my mind and spirit to uncover the keys to cancel my spells. And the strongest and finest of all my works had fallen to ruin beneath the onslaught of ram and fire.

Amid my memories of that other gate, Gimli cocks a thick eyebrow at me and nudges me. “How are you holding up, lass?” he asks, his voice gruff yet oddly gentle. “And the boys?”

I look down at him and manage a smile. “As well as we may, _Gimli Glóinul.”_

“We return to Aglarond four days hence. You are welcome there anytime, lass. You and your lads.”

Before I head back into the city, the worthy _casar_ takes my hand and pats it comfortingly with his broad, gnarled one.

I am drained and weary as I walked through the gates. The casting of the wards of protection has taken far more out of me than I had thought it would. You have felt it too—this diminishing of our powers. How mindspeaking across distances is now harder for us two. How we could not sense our lost son even over half a league.

So this is what the fading of our kind feels like. I wonder bleakly if it will worsen over centuries… till our light fades and we become no more in power than the mortals that surround me now.

I glance back at the finished gate. Amid my pride and satisfaction, sorrow that this work is done consumes me. Emptiness yawns before me in the days ahead.

I walk over the cobbled streets of Minas Tirith alone. The _atani_ part to clear a path before me, in their eyes a mix of wonder and fear. I wonder if I look as fey and grim as I feel within.

The nights are worst. The twins lie sprawled on your side of the bed, and I lie gazing at them, or at the ceiling. The aching emptiness is so great inside me, there are no tears. The silence within where your voice had been is like the void before the first note of the First Music.

 

It is a year to the day since Laurefindil first told me the news at the highest point of the city. As we climbed to the top of the Tower of Ecthelion to watch the sun set over Ered Nimrais, I knew in my _fëa_ he had some great matter to discuss. He had been in the Hall of Council all afternoon with Estel and the others, whilst I was with the _casári_ at the Great Gate. I could feel the restless, surging currents of excitement and unease in his _fëa_. We stood at the high battlements encircling the silver spike, just below the chamber of the palantir, and he told me how different reports had brought intelligence of the surviving forces of Sauron gathering at the _Hrónairë_ , the Sea of Rhûn.

 _“Urqui?”_ I had heard of King Elessar’s campaigns. Gondor and Rohan had hunted the remnants of the dark lord’s armies for the last two decades. The twins had been too young for Laurefindil to think of going. There had been no word for the last five years. I had imagined the wars were over.

“Yes. Apparently they rally under an Uruk chieftain who calls himself Dagog the Cruel. They have with them mountain trolls. And darkened races of men… _Hrónatani,_ Easterlings… and Variags, and the Balchoth. Gondor prepares to strike at them with Rohan. Once his baby is able to walk, Estel will ride forth with Éomer.”

He was silent for a while. His arms tightened around my waist, his cheek pressed against my hair. “Elladan and Elrohir will join them. And Legolas too.”

I felt my heart go dead within me as I pulled away from his embrace. “Just say it. Just say that you are going. There is no need to skirt around it like this.”

“But you and I need to discuss—”

“What is there to discuss?” I said resentfully. “The twins are twenty already this year. There is nothing to stop you from taking up your sword again.”

He looked into my eyes. I felt a curious undercurrent I did not understand. “There is no way I can go if you say it like that,” he said quietly.

“How would you like me to say it? I will not stand in your way. Go then. Go with my blessing. There, is that not what you want? Take it. Take my blessing and go.”

“I will not go. Not if you feel this way.”

“How do you expect me to feel? The _Hrónairë_ is four hundred sodding leagues away.” It would make his previous trips to Lothlórien and Mirkwood seem like a jaunt to Bree. “You are bored. You need your battles and your sword is thirsty for blood. How could I deprive you?”

“Is that how terrible you think me? That this war will be like _play_ to me? The best war is the one that never needs to be fought. I get plenty of pleasure in wielding a blade with skill, yes, but I get that just from sparring with the _pereldar_ and with you—”

“Oh, how could it compare with the thrill of the kill? Hunting rabbits and squirrels is not the same thing. You know it.”

He sighed. “Look. I admit there was an element of sport for me in slaughtering the minions of darkness for thousands of years. It was one way I dealt with the grimness and bitter losses and sorrows of war. Oh, I rejoiced when the dens of _urqui_ in the Greenwood were destroyed, and when the packs of _rácar_ roamed the Rhudaur no more... But I confess that part of me has rather missed them. Fighting has always been one of the things I do best.”

“You see? I know you too well. So there is no need to _lie_ to me and pretend indecision over going to Rhûn—”

“It is _not_ pretence!” he cried, a note of anguish in his voice. “I do not like what I have become over the last age—a seeker of that thrill of the kill, as you call it. Especially now that the rules of the game are no longer the same.” His eyes were dark violet and troubled. “This will be a different war, for me, and I do not think there could be sport in it for me any longer.”

There it was again, that dark, tumultuous undercurrent, so alien in his bright _fëa._ He turned away and leaned his elbows on the battlements… gazed out eastwards, over the Pelennor Fields. The western sun was fading on the Ephel Duath. Beyond it, vast lands stretched unseen.

I walked up and leaned close to him, my hand sliding under heavy golden tresses up the nape of his neck, my lips brushing against his ear lobe. “What is wrong? Talk to me.”

He did not speak for a while. “Do you know of the Great Plague of 1636?”

“I read of it.” I gave a small shrug. “It had naught to do with us.”

A corner of his mouth lifted wryly at how casually callous I was regarding that horrific decimation of the mortal population of Endórë. “That’s my _atani_ -loathing dark prince talking. You love Estel and Arwen. And admit it—you rather like Faramir and Éowyn. How many good _atani_ will have to sneak into your heart ere the race can be redeemed, _cundunya?”_

“We will never find out. I have no intention of admitting any other of the Afterborn into my affections. So. The Great Plague. What of it?”

Memory haunted his eyes. “It began here, in Gondor, brought by a ship from Umbar. There are no words to describe the horror. I was travelling through Anórien when I met the first groups of people fleeing west. By the time I arrived in Osgiliath, Telemnar and his queen and children were dead. And four-fifths of the people. I remained there eight months as a healer, helping to burn the bodies and tend the stricken, even after Telemnar’s successor abandoned the capital…”

As images of blackened and bloated bodies flashed in my mind from his, I wondered how much he had seen in seven thousand years that he had barely begun to tell me over ninety years of marriage. And for the hundredth time I wondered—from what fount he drew his endless joy and light, even after all that he has lived through.

“I managed to save many,” he was saying, “and the word must have spread… I was summoned urgently to Minas Ithil, one evening, and it proved to be a trap. Wainriders. Their people were dying like flies, and they brought me in chains to the lands beyond Dagorlad to save—”

“Wait. How did you let yourself be captured by barbarians?”

“For eight months I had laid my sword down to be purely a healer, _melmenya._ When they ambushed me, I was loath to fight them. All I saw when I looked at them were children of Eru Ilúvatar in need of my help. All I felt was compassion. I was with the Wainriders for almost a year. I saw much barbarity and cruelty that I loathed… but also honour… and courage… sometimes, in one and the same man. Pitiless pillagers who impaled the babies of their enemies on spears at lunchtime could go home for dinner to kiss their wives and cuddle their children. One such pillager, my captor, almost became my friend. Their tribe was almost exterminated by the dread pestilence, but I healed his children and many of his people. And, out of that, many friendships were truly born. I could have escaped at any time, but chose not to… till one day, the chieftain released me. Called me brother and gave me the kiss of friendship ere I left.” He paused. “Two centuries later, the Wainriders attacked Gondor. Thousands died over a century of war. I had no idea what to think, or what I felt.”

I reached for his hand and squeezed it. He looked down at our joined hands, and began to massage mine gently. Hands so healing and wondrous in their touch, it seemed heresy to think they could kill. He continued to speak.

“How easy it would be to act in a world of blacks and whites. In the Nirnaeth Arnoediad, had our Gondolindrin army clashed with Uldor’s Easterlings—the Wainriders’ forebears—I have no doubt I would have slaughtered them without compunction, as Makalaurë did. Put me back there now... I would fight them. But with what conviction…” His voice trailed away. “That year with the Wainriders has coloured my world grey. I have made it my mission to destroy the fell creatures of darkness. I have never once taken the lives of _atani,_ no matter how darkened their hearts, how savage their natures. They are not the Nazgûl, in whom all that was human had been utterly consumed, as all that is elven has perished in an orc.”

“What of the slavers that stole our son? They are foul and depraved men. They may be neither _urqui_ nor Nazgûl, but they are no better than beasts, and deserve to die as such.”

“I wish I could see it so simply, my bloodthirsty beloved. But I cannot. For millennia I have watched _atani_ slaughter _atani_ and wanted no part of it. That is why my heart is not in this. Easterlings. Variags. Balchoth… I would have to meet them on the battlefield, in Rhûn.”

“Then there is no dilemma— _do not go!_ This is _Man’s_ fight, not ours. Let them go kill each other.”

He looked at me gravely. “But I remain the servant of Turukáno’s line and of the light. There was no question, during the War of the Ring, that my first duty was to you and the children. Now our boys are already twenty. How could I let Estel and Elladan and Elrohir ride to war, and not take my place at their side? How could I know that creatures of darkness yet threaten Endórë, and not do my part to destroy them?” His eyes travelled over the lands spread before us. “Will we sail, or will we stay?” he asked me quietly. “Until we decide, my love, this is still my fight.”

 _Bastard._ _Noble, dutiful, heroic bastard._

“Not much of a discussion in the end, was it?” I said tightly.

“I wanted to explain it to you. I wanted you to understand—”

“But in the end nothing I had to say mattered.”

“It _does._ It does matter, _vesseya._ I have said my part, but what you say will decide the matter.”

I am selfish. I played dirty. “ _Damn_ it, Flower… you could have sailed back to Aman with Elrond, and counted your duty to Turukáno’s line and the Valar as fulfilled. The truth is that you stayed back for _me._ Do you think I do not know it? Estel and the twins have the armies of Gondor and Rohan. They can secure the future of Endórë without you. But our boys need you… _I_ need you.” Tossing out my pride, I played my last card, and looked at him through eyes swimming with tears that came all too easily.

_If he mentions how Estel is leaving Arwen with a tiny baby and four children, I am going to drug him and tie him to our bed till the army leaves…_

The tears worked as I knew they would. He tenderly brushed them from my face and kissed me, his azure eyes stricken. “Then I will stay,” he said simply. “I will tell Estel. Come.” He turned and pulled me by the hand towards the steps.

“Wait!” I pulled him to a halt, my heart guilty and unquiet. I thought of Arwen, and the baby, and her daughters. If anything, anything were to happen to Estel, or to her brothers, and I had kept back the best warrior in Middle Earth for myself… “How long do you think the campaign will last?”

He looked at me in some surprise. “It could be a year. It could be five. We do not yet know what exactly we are up against—” Once the words left his mouth, he realized it. In his heart, he was still going. We looked at each other. A sense of resignation descended upon me.

“You are going,” I said wearily. “I will not fight it. You are the greatest warrior in Endórë, and you should be at Estel’s side. I know what staying behind will do to you.” If anything befell any of the three, regret and guilt would eat away at him… “I could not do that to you. Are you certain, regardless your scruples, that you are prepared to lift your sword against _moratani?_ ”

“Prepared? No… but I would do it. I would see it as a necessary evil in the face of a greater evil.”

“Would you hesitate to kill the savages?”

“If I ride under Estel’s banner, his enemies are mine. I will not fail him.”

“Four hundred leagues...” I muttered. A tight knot formed in the pit of my stomach, and I felt as though the vast distance already yawned between us like a great gulf.

“I will not go without your blessing. I will not leave you if you need me. One word.”

“Damn it, Flower. I will always need you.” My throat ached and I felt a hot tear slide down my cheek. “Go. But let me go with you and fight at your side again.”

He did not release my hand through all this. He pulled me to him and held me tightly. “Valar, do you know how much I want that? I want it and fear it in equal measure.”

We were both quiet, having the same thought at the same time.

“What of the boys?” he said. “How could both of us go so far and leave them for so long?”

“They _are_ already twenty...” It was traditionally the age at which the children of the Eldar required less of their parents’ care.

“Look what happened when we left them alone for a morning?”

And both of us knew at once what needed to be done. I felt a strange calm descend upon me.

And I, who had once defied a king’s wishes—who had refused to remain behind as his regent, but wilfully rode with him to war—I, who had once, young and arrogant, burned with eagerness to prove myself in battle—now looked at my husband with soft eyes, and spoke as a docile _nís._

“Go then,” I said quietly, my arms tightening around him. “Go with my blessing… I shall stay with the boys. Estel needs you at his side, and I will not withhold you. With the greatest warrior of the _quendi_ there, the enemy shall fall the faster, victory will come the sooner. Arwen and her daughters, and many families, will rejoice to receive their men back safe, and sooner, because you go.”

 

How selfless and noble. None of that comforts me now as I stare at the ceiling and feel my emptiness. You and I had hoped our minds could touch, over the leagues. But once you and the troops passed Osgiliath, the silence fell.

It is going to be another sleepless night. I roll over and breathe in deeply the scent of our sons’ fair hair. They smell like summer, as you do. I memorized your mouth, imprinted you on my body, each time we made love from that day till you left. I have discovered how little elven memory, for all its crystal clarity, is worth. I would take back all the selfless words I said at the top of Ecthelion’s Tower just to have you back here in my arms again.

 

He walks slowly along the wall of the Citadel, tall and regal, his silver hair lifting in the western wind.

I never have anything to say to him, this great-uncle of yours, nor him to me. We bow to each other as we pass like ships in the night. I glance back and watch as he gazes west. Alone as I.

But is he as lonely? I wonder why he stayed behind when his love sailed west. He has no reason to dread Aman as I do, surely.

I have been without you eight months and twenty-four days and thirteen hours. What is that but the blink of an eye to an elf? Yet how the days have dragged for me. I shiver when I think of the twenty-two _coranári_ he has been here without his mate.

Loneliness must have driven him from the golden woods. The memory of a smile and a radiant gleam of golden hair haunting him in every glade, from behind every tree. The memories of her voice echoing down through the millennia as he walked over swards of elanor.

He has been here in Minas Tirith for two years now. His people he has sent to Eryn Lasgalen or Ithilien, or bidden them take ship from Mithlond.

How does he survive in this city of men? He is as out of place as a snowy owl among noisy, flapping crows, as a swan among ducks.

He keeps largely to the Citadel, where his chambers are near Arwen’s. I oft meet him in the library. He reads the poets and philosophers of men and elves. He has no use for history; he has lived it all. Always, his face is serene and smooth. He glides along silently through the aisles, straight and tall, only his long robes whispering his presence. I have never seen him speak to any of the _atani_ he passes or who serve him. He barely acknowledges their presence. They are to him like wraiths or mayflies; their brief lives signify no more to him than the statues of kings lining Rath Dínen.

His glittering grey eyes come truly alive only with his family. He sits, a Silver Tree beneath the boughs of the White Tree, and watches his great-granddaughters at play with a gentle smile, and listens with pleasure to Arwen singing his favourite songs and playing the harp.

In a hundred years or so, that song and that harp will fall forever silent. He will watch, in turn, each of those fair, laughing children grow grey and wither and die.

Where will you and I be, when that happens? Will we have taken the road west like his lady, or chosen to remain as he?

Or will we have parted ways as they, one following the sunset… and the other…

It is myself I contemplate, as my eyes follow the silver lord. Imagining myself a lone raven among crows, an immortal among mayflies. Facing the long ages till the Second Music in these lands overrun by men.

We stand apart on the citadel walls, our faces turned west. The breeze that kisses our faces as it flies up the Anduin from the sea has never smelled so sweet.

 

“Go to Ithilien, and wait there for me,” he said before he left. He knew how little I would enjoy being surrounded by mortals for the year or more he would be away.

I was silent. Haldir and a handful of the elves of Ithilien would ride to war with him and Legolas. The rest had no desire to risk going to Námo in a fight not theirs, regardless they wished to sail or stay in Endórë.

The one who would lead the elves of Ithilien in the absence of Legolas would be Teliaris.

Laurefindil did not have to tell me a word of anything that had transpired between him and his sister. One look into her azure eyes at our wedding, at that sly little smile on her luscious lips, and I had known.

Whenever I think of Teliaris, this is how I usually imagine her: pinned pretty face down to the ground under me, as I twist her arms behind her back and rub her nose into the dirt.

“No, the boys and I will stay in Minas Tirith,” I told him.

And kissed him as I knew Teliaris could never.

 

I let the boys go nowhere lower than the Fifth Circle without me or another to watch over them.

“ _Am-më_ , we will be _fine,_ ” they protest. “We are older now—we can take care of ourselves.”

No. No more wandering in the bazaar and markets alone, no traipsing around the hamlets and townlands of the Pelennor unsupervised.

They are our children and they chafe against it. They are restless and long to roam free.

I roamed the dark woods of Nan Elmoth all alone at their age. When I got home close to dawn, _Adar_ would be waiting, smouldering with rage and ready to smite me. _Ammë_ never seemed to mind how late or how long I stayed out. Only now as I follow behind our children, never losing sight of them as they race over the open fields and through the groves of the Pelennor, do I understand the love in my father’s cantankerous heart. The further my _Ammë_ drifted from him, the more furious their fights, the tighter he sought to control and hold on to me.

They are all I have left of you right now. The thought of their loss or danger is not bearable.

Of course, as your children, they want to scale the Rammas Echor simply because it is there. They attempted the turret of the Tower of Ecthelion last week.

“Get down from there right now! Do you want to kill yourselves?”

In my own voice, I hear my father’s fear. And the faint, ironic echo of a curse.

 

Every time I see that bright flash of gold, just a little less bright than your hair, my heart leaps. I watch our Firstborn run to the young messenger waiting outside the House of the Riders in the Sixth Circle. These relay riders make the first leg of the journey from Minas Tirith to Annúminas, bearing letters and papers between the Governors and the Regent. There are privileges in being the special guests of the King and Queen. I watch our son pass the messenger a small package, the size and shape of a small book.

Of course, I think... the third relay station en route to Annúminas is at Imladris. Some soldiers and officers of the Reunited Kingdom were granted use of the southern wing of the great house by the Lords of Imladris seven summers ago.

I doubt our son’s package is for anyone in our household. Unless it be a long-distance prank mailed to Erestor, and I know Aryo has too much good sense now.

What would you do?

You would go to our son, and speak to him gravely, man-to-man, and discover what is afoot.

How ashamed of me you would be. I wait till our son has skipped away, then approach the messenger.

“Did my son give you a package?” I smile sweetly, in a manner I have discovered makes male _atani_ of all ages go weak at the knees. “I forgot to put something in it.”

On the package is written, in Westron, _Faelinn Hawthorn, Rivendell_.

I run back to our chamber, for our twins are at their music lesson. I untie the string and take out two small, slender books wrapped in a piece of cloth. _The Lay of Leithian_ and _Athrabeth Finrod ah Andreth_ , both translated into Westron and written on thin parchment in Aryo’s precise, well-formed hand.

They are bound in leather; I remember seeing him do this over the past few days.

There is a letter sealed with wax. I slide a thin, sharp blade under the seal and open it without breaking it.

_Greetings, fair Faelinn, from the City of the Kings…_

There are four pages covered with close text, pouring out his life here in Minas Tirith.

_…Atto has been gone fourteen months and seven days now. We miss him so much, and Ammë most of all, though she will never say it…_

I scan it rapidly. Lessons. New friends. A funny incident in the market. A book he is reading now. Then…

_…I hope you continue to read and are diligent in practising your writing. I enclose here two translations I have made for you—they are the writings I told you of in my last letter. I think you are ready to read them by now. You are the cleverest girl I have ever met, after my Ammë, who is truly not as scary as you imagine._

Oh, he has no idea. I have been wishing every plague and mishap mortals are susceptible to upon the young _adaneth,_ if only she would be permanently removed from my son’s life.

_I have sent word to Erestor that you should have use of our library whenever you wish. Please feel free to go to the house—they are all very kind and Thalanes makes excellent honey cakes..._

I bite my lip, suddenly so homesick for Imladris that I want to weep.

_… I have seen you not for eighteen months and fifteen days already, and I cannot tell you how much I miss our lessons and our talks. I miss you so much. Though your parents knew no Sindarin when they named you, dear Faelinn, by a strange fate of the stars your name means “soul-song” in my tongue. And I am feeling the truth of your name, for now I am far from you my soul feels out of tune..._

My skin crawls with goosebumps.

Where in Eä did that come from? Our baby is twenty-two. At that age my life’s pleasures were smithing and hunting small mammals, and yours were sailing and games and swordplay.

Why could he not be like Arman, for whom life is archery and play and song, as it should be for a child?

I blame this on your father. He fell in love with Amárië when they were both children. And oh, of course, he loved the _fírimar._ Loved them enough to lay down his immortal life for one of them.

I blame this on your uncle. That _fíriel-_ loving colossal moron. Is our son not intelligent enough, with all his knowledge of history, to realize that when it comes to loving mortals, the _néri_ have had no luck?

It is all the fault of that damned Arafinwion blood.

It took your father over a hundred sodding Valian years to win Amárië’s hand. This wretched mortal girl is probably going to be dead in less than six Valian years.

I stare at our child’s signature before folding up the letter and taking up the books.

What would you do?

I want to light a fire and feed all of it to the flames.

I flip through the books our child has lovingly inscribed. My fingers tremble slightly. The translation is accurate, the language precociously polished. The heavy relevance of the two texts to an _elda-atan_ relationship would be obvious even to a halfwit.

I seal the letter again with a heavy heart.

I do not have your courage to speak to him about this. You always know the right words to say, that censure and comfort and counsel in equal measure. I fear confronting it will stir him to recklessness or resentment. Drive him away from me. Drive him to rebellion and defiance. As happened with my father and I.

We came here hoping it was a child’s fancy, and would fade with time.

What if it does not?

I light the fire, the letter poised in my hand above the flames.

The next morning, the messenger rides out with the neatly-retied package in his pouch.

 

It is late afternoon when I go to the training courtyard on the Fifth Circle. It is empty at this time, I know, and the sword-training dummies will be in the shade. The summer sun blazes here with a brilliance that is almost harsh.

Because of the heat, I pull back my hair in a long braid that hangs to my waist. I put aside the dresses I wear daily here, and pull on a short-sleeved grey tunic in a fine, cool linen, and lightweight slate-grey breeches, and the black boots you bought me before you left. A woman in mannish clothing. That might make them gawk. But if they think I am going to train in skirts, they can go to hell.

It’s been a bad day. I miss you so much I hurt. Practice sword in hand, I run through the advanced drills you taught me so well. The familiar rhythm soothes me, and your voice runs through my head as I go through the paces over and over and over again. _Footwork! Point up! Breathe!_

I miss sparring with you. I attack the row of dummies lining the courtyard and rehearse perfect killing strokes with almost trance-like concentration. But there is little satisfaction to be had in attacking dummies. Before long, the presence of others here filters into my consciousness. Eyes staring. Muttering voices.

There is a gallery above the courtyard running along its length. Eight soldiers are leaning over the railings and looking at me. I see admiration on some faces, leers on others.

The show is over, boys. As I turn away to leave, one lewd comment catches my ear. A comment akin to what you once said to me in the healing halls, only phrased far less poetically and in Westron.

I whirl around to face them, cheeks burning, my eyes raking over their faces.

Silence falls abruptly.

“One of you thought highly of his manhood a moment past,” I snap. “Whoever you are, I dare you to look me in the eyes and repeat that again.”

No one speaks or moves for an awkward moment, then one brave young fellow speaks up. “Our apologies, valiant lady. We are but rough soldiers admiring a good sword-stroke and a fair face. And some tongues, alas, are made foolish in the presence of beauty.”

“Prettily said, good sir. But it was neither my _skill_ nor my _face_ that inspired those words from your fellow,” I growl.

“What goes on here?” says a clear, ringing voice.

The Regent of Gondor stands at one end of the gallery, hands behind his back.

“Prince Faramir,” I say with a bow, something in the kind regard of those grey eyes calming me.

“Lady Lómiel,” he bows in return. “Pray tell me, have my men been disturbing you?”

“One of them underestimated elven hearing, my lord. I am waiting for him to apologize like a man, instead of hiding now like a wet-nosed pup.”

A husky fellow at one end steps forward, his face red. “I proffer my humblest apologies, my lady, for the offence I caused,” he says a little stiffly, probably deciding it is best to come clean before one of his seven comrades outs him. I stare at him coldly for a long moment. His eyes falter and look down.

“Accepted,” I say shortly.

“Let me not hear of disrespect shown to the King’s guests again. Get along to your duties,” snapped Faramir.

The soldiers disappear and as I make to leave, Faramir descends the stairs and enters the courtyard. “Lady Lómiel, I make apology for my men’s behaviour. They have seen few elf women, apart from the Queen.”

I smile wryly. “And I am not like her in the slightest.”

Queen Arwen is all the perfections of womanhood and all feminine graces in one slender, immaculate, shimmering package, an object of reverent awe bordering on worship to her people. The effect her peerless beauty has on common _fírimar_ , especially at close quarters, is usually to reduce them to silence like stunned mullets or to incoherent gibber.

Sword in hand, sweating from the heat, with wet strands of loose hair clinging to my neck and brow, and my damp tunic clinging to my body, I cut a very different figure, I am sure.

Faramir speaks as though he broaches a matter of utmost delicacy. “It is unknown here for women to wear men’s clothes as well. Thus it does tend to draw… undesired attention.”

Oh yes. It is one thing to dress as a man if one slays a Nazgûl king in wartime, and quite another to make a spectacle of oneself in peacetime in an open courtyard with soldiers passing by. In other words, though in his courtesy Faramir would never say it, I had almost invited what had just happened. I feel my cheeks burn. “So I have come to realize. I shall refrain from being so attired, henceforth. But to train in skirts would be incredibly tiresome.”

His grey eyes twinkle sympathetically. “I agree. I certainly would not wish to do so myself. Perhaps I could arrange for a private practice room for you? There are a few suitable ones in the Sixth Circle, close to your quarters. I will have a couple of training dummies moved there.”

“Thank you. That would be most kind.”

“I had thought, before this, that elf women were…”

I smile wryly. “Nice? Polite? Kind? Gentle? I am none of those things. I do not pretend to represent my race nor my sex. And I have brought disrepute to both, I fear.”

He laughs. “I would have said ‘less warlike’. I see now why the King and his brothers regretted that you could not ride with them to war.”

“What is the latest from Rhûn?”

“It goes well. Two tribes of the Úmanyar have joined forces with our troops. They crossed the Celduin unopposed, and have taken a fortress of the Balchoth. Minimal losses. Your husband is well. And your lords, and Legolas, and the King.”

I smile at him, relieved and grateful. “Thank you.”

Light and lively voices approach, chattering in a strange mix of Quenya, Sindarin and Westron. Our twins bound into the courtyard, grinning cheerfully and glowing almost as brightly as you do.

“ _Ammë!”_ they shout. Then they bow to the Regent with happy grins on their faces. “Prince Faramir!” They are familiar with him by now. He has been almost a father to them in your absence, taking them hunting and riding with Elboron. You would approve.

 “Master Feredir taught us about Gondolin today!” says Aryo, falling into Westron sprinkled with Sindarin.

“Of course we already knew _all_ about it—” brags Arman.

“Feredir said Father is one of the _bravest_ and _noblest_ elf heroes in history!”

“ _Everyone_ here knows how Father slew a balrog!”

Given that they have been mixing mostly with Gondorian soldiers and their sons, I am sure that must have seemed true to them. They are bursting with pride as they speak.

Faramir smiles. “It is true. Your father is a mighty warrior and a hero of great renown. You are rightfully proud of him.”

“But not all in the books here is as Father told us,” says Aryo, looking a little puzzled.

“Yes—according to Feredir’s book, the _gwarth_ Maeglin was a coward.”

“He allied himself with Morgoth to escape torture—”

“—but Father always told us he was a brave man—”

“—that he _was_ tortured—”

“—most severely—”

“—but I wonder… _how_ Father could have known that…” says Aryo. “He never spoke to the _gwarth_ before they were both killed.”

“Father doesn’t like to speak ill of people. Maybe he was just guessing.”

“I was taught from the same book as Feredir,” says the Regent. “Loremaster Pengolodh survived Gondolin, and would have been able to gather the story from other survivors who would have had words with the traitor. Princess Idril and Tuor her lord, most especially. Your father is a generous and noble spirit indeed, to speak so well of one who wrought his own fall and that of many he loved.”

I like Faramir a little less than I did a couple of minutes past.

“Oh yes! Yes, he is!” Aryo beams.

“Maeglin could not have been that brave!”

“One who could betray his own kind surely could not have good in him.”

“Pengolodh even said he might have _orc-blood!”_ Arman says it with relish even though he grimaces.

“Eww… that is _balc,_ all right!” exclaims Aryo. Our sons wrinkle their noses in disgust.

I feel as though a knife has been thrust through my heart. Never had I conceived that my old tutor, the loremaster, could say such a thing… How did you always manage to conceal that particular detail from me?

A vandal in the last years of the Third Age had torn out all the pages on Maeglin from the books in the library. Idhren ere he sailed west had almost fainted at the unspeakable horror of such a crime.

I struggle to keep down the wave of nausea rising in me. “Utterly preposterous,” I manage to say, my voice harsh. “How could such a thing even be possible?”

“Maybe his _father_ was half-orc!”

“Yea!”

“ _There is no such thing!_ That is obscene!! As if one with orc-blood would ever have been made a prince and lord by the king, and respected for centuries within the city. I am _ashamed_ that you would give such filth any credence. Do not _ever_ repeat such rubbish again.”

Our sons look contrite and a little cowed. “Yes, _Ammë,”_ they murmur.

I see Faramir eyeing me a little oddly. I quickly school my face.

“Get along now,” says the Regent to the twins, clapping them on their backs. “Did you not tell Harnor you wanted to watch him challenge Gaelig? They should be in the jousting yard now.”

“Oh yes, Prince Faramir! May we, _Ammë?”_

“Yes. Go.”

“ _Ammë!”_ They hug me and run out.

“Lady Lómiel,” Faramir says. “Methinks you are weary. Will you come partake of some refreshment with me and my lady? We have a very good cake sweetened with dates, and a fragrant new drink from pods grown south of the Haradwaith.”

It is not the first time an invitation of this nature has been extended. His grey eyes are kind. He is a handsome mortal, and his features have a certain boyishness in them, but there are lines already at the corners of his eyes, and after another two years of shouldering the burdens of the Kingdom, grey is showing at his temples.

“That is most kind, lord... but no. I shall practice with the dummy a while longer.”

“We could also spar a little now, if you wish. It would take me but a moment to get another sword.”

“Oh no. You are kindness itself, but I shall not keep you. The dummy is all I need.”

I could not make it clearer that I wish to be alone. He bows as he takes his leave. “I will send you word on the morrow, which room will be at your disposal for your practice.”

“My heartfelt thanks, Prince Faramir.”

The pain and hurt are so great within me as I stand alone in the lengthening shadows, that I give vent to them by drawing a knife from my belt and hurling it violently across the courtyard. It lands loudly with a reverberating _thunk_ and quivers dead-centre between the carven eyes of a weather-beaten dummy.

A movement at the corner of my eye. I turn my head to see Faramir lingering at the entrance of the courtyard, looking back at me over his shoulder. The expression on his face is a little… disturbed.

 

As I lay out the pieces of jewellery, there is a rapturous chorus of _oohs_ and _aahs_ from the ladies of the Queen’s court. I step back and watch as they reverently lift necklaces and earrings and bracelets, trying them out before the mirrors sitting on the table. They look like bright, richly-plumed birds. Their giggles and chatter rise like the chirping clamour of birdsong that greets me each morning at our bedroom window.

Since the dwarves left, I have had little occupation for my hands. The Queen sent a message to the smithies to make me welcome, but the burly smiths had eyed me dubiously and not known what to do with me. And there had been more of the same stares and leers that I had from the soldiers.  It was impossible to do any work in such surroundings. I would have feared my hammer ending up buried in someone’s brain.

With my jewelling tools and a crucible for smelting, and handfuls of gemstones and gold and silver from the Queen, I craft these creations in our chamber. I come to the Queen’s court only when I have pieces completed. Arwen and her older daughters are given the first selection, the remnants are laid out as gifts for her ladies-in-waiting to choose from. The cloistered atmosphere stifles me. Their gossip and chatter and idle vanities drive me insane. When I spend more than two hours with Arwen’s ladies, you do not want to know where I want to stick those jewelling tools, my love.

Arwen comes to sit at my side on the luxuriously upholstered leather couch.

“I understand that you have been keeping to your quarters a great deal of late.” There is a gentle concern in her grey eyes.

“I read, I craft. I train in a nearby room. I have all I need there, Arwen.”

Arwen’s eyes wander fondly over her ladies as they deck themselves with baubles and preen before the mirrors. “I do not expect you to come here and mingle with my ladies, _mellon-vuin._ But you know you are always welcome to join me for my private dinners… why have you not come once?”

I do not know why. I have preferred to take a quiet dinner alone in our room or with the boys…

“Nor have you once accepted the invitations of Prince Faramir and Princess Éowyn to their home, Lómiel,” the Queen adds gently.

“I send the boys. They enjoy being with Elboron.”

Arwen gazes at me for a while, a faint smile playing on her lips. The grey eyes are wise and sad. “Do not withdraw from life so, _mellon-vuin._ When Glorfindel was here, you would go to the markets and ride out into the townlands with him. You would join us for all our banquets or dine with Estel and me in our chambers… and we would sit together under the stars by the fountains and the White Tree, and listen to song, flute and harp as we talked the night away. You miss him as I miss Estel, but he would wish you to live life as though he were here. As I do in Estel’s absence, for the sake of our daughters, and await with hope the day he rides back through the gates in victory.” She takes my hand and pats it. The gesture is maternal, and I feel it as such, no matter how many millennia younger her _fëa_ is than mine.

It is true, _Laurelotya_ , my golden flower, that over the years you have pulled me out of the shadows and solitude of my mole-tunnels, and that you are what draws me into the sunshine of life. Arwen makes me realize how easily, in your absence, I have withdrawn and reverted to my old ways… and not even been conscious of my lapse.

But it is more than this. Only I will never have any way of saying it.

On one hand are the common masses of _atani_ whom I despise as a race. They are predominantly rank and crass, dirty and stupid. They are capable of depravities and debaucheries beyond elvish comprehension. And they are ludicrously self-important for a race that perishes like mayflies, their brief lives like flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow.

But on the other hand, there are Estel, and Faramir, and Éowyn, in whom I have come to know nobility, courage, wisdom and generosity far beyond my own, and who have stealthily crept into my esteem and my heart. I look at Arwen, to whom I gave my friendship ere I ever guessed that she might choose mortality. When she did, it had felt almost like betrayal.

I could never tell her, could never say it _: I don’t know how to be a friend to you anymore—how to draw close to someone who I know will be dead in a handful of seasons._ _I don’t know how to bear such a loss except to draw away and armour my heart against caring too deeply._

For that reason, too, I have not gone to Aglarond to visit the dwarves.

As I gaze into Arwen’s grey eyes, I feel somehow that I do not need to say it. That she knows. There is something of her grandmother in the way her eyes penetrate mine. She smiles at me reassuringly like a mother, then appealingly like a sister.

I smile back at her. “We will come for dinner tonight.”

 

A messenger rides in from the north. I watch our son run to meet him, and go away dejected. No reply. Again.

There have been five letters to Imladris I have intercepted, over the past two years. I do not know how many others have gone without my knowledge. Always, I reseal them after reading. The messengers have begun to give me conspiratorial smiles.

The letters have grown shorter, their tone increasingly despondent.

_…did you get my last letter? I hope you are well…_

_…I have been thinking much of you and wondering how you are. I do hope you may write soon…_

_…please write…_

I am glad now I did not destroy any of his missives. The wretched and unworthy girl sees but a child beneath her notice, and her lack of response will kill the sorry affair better than if we had intervened. I want to thrash her for wounding our son, kiss her for giving him back to us.

Aryo kicks a stone dejectedly as he walks away. I long to rush out there and fold him in my arms.

 

I know a report has come in from Rhûn. They come only once in two months, or more. Dagog the Cruel and his orcs and trolls were destroyed or scattered in the first year of the campaign. The Balchoth and Variags have been subjugated over eighteen months of war, but the _Hrónatani_ tribes, with their lightning-fast cavalry strikes, are still unconquered.

I see at once from Faramir’s face when he comes to the Citadel that he does not want to tell me. I know you are alive. If you were not, I would feel it in my _fëa._ That gives me strength as I look into his grey eyes.

“I can take it. Tell me.”

“There was a battle with the Easterlings outside the gates of the fort—”

“He has been taken,” I say at once. I know.

“Yes. He was wounded and captured in a great act of heroism, while covering the retreat of the Gondorian forces. King Elessar has sent forth a party to parley.”

I hold the boys close to me as we stand at the Embrasure of the white city and look east. I tell them you will come back and that you know well the language of the _Hrónatani_ and their ways.

I do not tell them my own fears. Of savageries and tortures and heads of enemies displayed on spikes. Of wounds so great they fester and bring fever and death. Of the last I fear less. It took the relay riders a whole month to carry the news here on swift steeds. You live still. My greater fear is of debilitating wounds, crippling hurts.

The boys stand on either side of me and hug me tightly. They seem to be giving comfort more than seeking it.  I stoop to kiss the tops of their fair heads. They have grown two fingers’ breadth since you left.

 

We lie basking in the afterglow, talking in bed, heads close together on our pillows. I never thought that the familiar sight of his golden tresses, as they lie once again in a luminous tangle with my own black ones, could fill me with such joy.

“You are thinner,” I murmur softly. I brush bright strands of hair from his face and glide my fingers over the contours of his subtly-sharpened cheekbones. He is only a little leaner, his skin glowing warm and tan from long hours in the sun. It suits him. My fingers then travel downwards to trace new, fast-healing scars on his body, still raised and white, not yet faded to faint silver lines. “Arwen is lamenting that Estel is skin and bones.”

“We were too eager to be home to linger over meals.” He smiles, making light of the hardship.

With infinite tenderness his fingers lightly trace my face, then lightly draw patterns on my back until he falls asleep, more exhausted than he would admit. I watch him through the hours of the night, drinking in the sight of him as though re-learning each eyelash and curve of his lips.

In captivity he had negotiated with the Easterling chieftains and won over the descendants of the Wainriders he had once saved. Reached out to heal their warriors in their infirmary, and earned the tribe’s reverent awe.

They have songs still, these tribes with no written records, of a golden angel who had come with healing in the time of the Great Death. Passed down over a thousand years, the songs tell of how the eight mighty sons of Varek the Terrible were saved from the demons of the Black Death, snatched from the very brink of hell by this angel of light, and hence survived to form the Eight Great Clans of the Shaad-ren. Five went further east. Three clans, Bear, Wolf and Lion, now remain at Rhûn.

Disabused of many of the lies of Sauron by my _Laurelotë_ over weeks of his captivity, and finally persuaded by him to seek peace, the chieftains agreed to negotiations with Estel, then released him. Talks and a peace treaty soon followed between the Reunited Kingdom and the Shaad-ren.

I do not ask him how many of the Afterborn fell to his sword over these three years, nor does he wish to speak of it yet.

He has mentioned how, in the full fury of battle, he could feel his own exceptional strength was not all it had once been. “I had to be careful. I could feel that I was not as fast as before, nor as tireless. I had to relearn my body, and how much it could do. How much I could trust it.”

We spend a summer in Ithilien, then journey back to Imladris. He sings again, and there seems to be joy undiminished in his voice and face. But occasionally I catch it—a distant look in the azure eyes, brief flashes of images in his mind: wiping the sword of Valinor clean of blood that is red, not black… faces of men frozen in death on a battlefield, a few of them mere beardless boys.

It is the price of peace. It is necessary. It is the face of war in this Age of Men. He knows that, and he chooses not to regret it. But my throat tightens with tears at times, to feel the shadow that has tainted the purity of his _fëa_ , to see his golden brightness marred. To know I have no comfort to offer him, save my love, no means of healing him in return for all he has wrought for me over the long years.

There is healing and wholeness, for him, in Aman. But I know he will not say it nor seek it for himself. That if I say stay, he will stay.

What will I say? I do not know. I belong neither in this world of mortals, nor in the Blessed Realm beyond the sea. There is nothing new in this. I did not belong among the Avari of Nan Elmoth, with my mother’s golodhrin features and white skin. I did not belong in Gondolin, with my black eyes and my Avarin father’s temperament.

There is only one place I have ever truly felt I belonged.

He turns and smiles at me as we ride into the valley of Imladris one autumn afternoon. “Here we are! Home at last.” It is, for now. And it is so for one reason alone.

It is he who makes this, or any place, home.

 

We have no sooner stabled our horses than the ancient silver-haired lord wanders off towards the waterfalls alone. He surprised his grandsons by quietly announcing that he would come with us when we left the land of Gondor. He spoke little on the ride.

The reunion with the household is joyous—even Erestor is happy to see Glorfindel and the twins. An hour later, I espy Aryo running down the terrace besides the ravine, towards the path leading down to the village.

I slip away and follow stealthily behind. As I go through the village I am struck by the changes of four years. The few elves have diminished further in number, the _atani_ seem to have almost doubled.

I see my son run to a cottage, where a woman who must be the girl’s mother sits plucking a chicken in the doorway. I slip behind the thick trunk of an oak.

“Why Master Aryo! Welcome back! You have grown some I see. You would be looking for Faelinn, of course.”

“Is she home, Goodwife Hawthorn?”

“Well, I have to tell you… Faelinn has gone north. To Annúminas, the big city.”

I hear the sharp intake of my child’s breath. “Gone?” His voice is faint.

“Aye. Four springs ago. Wed a soldier passing through from Gondor to Arnor. A fine young fellow, merry-hearted and gentle-spoken.”

“ _Wed?_ But she… she is _so young!”_

“Oh, Master Aryo, she was almost sixteen and that’s a ripe age! I wed at fourteen meself. We have just had word she’s been brought to bed of a fine, strong boy. Her second babe. She had a bonny lass three springs ago.” The goodwife’s cheerful voice was full of pride. “We sent some letters of yourn by Aldo the Tinker when he headed north last spring. But the good-for-nothing sot sent back word he lost them and all his worldly goods in a tavern brawl. And with two good shawls I made for her too! I really am sorry, Master Aryo. But Faelinn remembers you fondly enow, and sent well-wishes along with the news of the bairn.”

I catch up with him on the banks of the Bruinen as he tries to run from the hurt of rejection and loss as I once did. I hold him tightly, relieved that he will not have to watch the girl grow grey and bent with age and care. I remember a garden in Gondolin on an autumn night long ago. My own heart breaks as his small body shakes with bitter, heartbroken tears.

We sit on the river bank. His voice chokes out the story of his loss, barely coherent as he sobs. I murmur consoling noises as I wipe his eyes and tears with my sleeve. After a long while, his weeping subsides. “I am never, ever going to love anyone again.”

“Oh, that was what I told myself too,” I say, “Before your _Atar_ and I came together.”

“What?” Shocked, teary grey eyes stare at me.

“I loved someone else, a long, long time ago.”

“But… but you didn’t love him like you love _Atto_ , did you?”

“Not at all as I love your _Atto_. But I really loved her— _him_ —with all my heart at that time. I could not imagine loving anyone else.”

His grey eyes are still startled, he looks at me differently, as though I am not the _Amil_ he has always known, as though his reality is being redefined. “What—what happened?”

“I was not loved in return. It hurt. Greatly.”

His face crumples. “I will never see her again…” A fresh flood of tears comes. “Why did she have to leave? If only she could just be here, and I could see her now and again—“

“No, no, _yonya._ Believe me. It would be worse to see her daily. Much worse. To know that you cannot have her. Ever. And worst of all to see her wed to someone else, and behold them together every day. Little in the world hurts more, believe me, and I am glad that you are spared that. It is better your Faelinn has left. And you can hold on to the memory of those few fragile moments you enjoyed her friendship.” I am astonished at the emotion with which my voice shakes, as I recall it all.

He hears it and looks at me, troubled. “But _Ammë_ … you love _Atto_?”

I smile. “Oh, so much. So much there are no words for it. My first, sad love is so weak, such a pale shadow of what your _Atto_ and I have. That does not mean it did not deeply hurt at the time, does not mean it did not feel real. But it is history, and sometimes I feel as though it happened to someone else, and was merely a dream. Your _Atto_ is my reality now. And it seems to me that all the love and grief I once had only prepared me to love him all the more. No one could possibly compare to this _Atto_ of yours, and I would not have anyone else in all of Eä.”

Aryo gives me a wan smile.

“Give your _Amil_ a kiss.”

He kisses my cheek and hugs me tightly.

“Now. Let us go find your _Atar_ and Arman. I think they should be preparing to go hunting.”

As he walks by my side back up the Bruinen and towards the house, Aryo says suddenly, “ _Ammë_?”

“Yes, _yonya_?”

“Does _Atar_ know you loved Camaen?”

I stare at him, utterly stunned. “What makes you think it was Camaen?”

“Your first love married, right? Camaen and Thalanes are the only ones to be married in Imladris in the two hundred years before you and _Atar_ were married. That’s what Lindir said.”

I put my hand on his shoulder, look down into his grey eyes, and say very seriously, “Now, Camaen has no idea of any of this. You must never, ever say anything to him about it. It is our secret. All right, _yonya_?”

“All right, _Ammë_. I love you.” He takes hold of my hand and squeezes it as we make the ascent to the house.

I look down at him with a smile, and for a moment I think I would fight off every _elleth_ and _adaneth_ in Arda to have him always mine. “I love you too.”

As we reach the door, we hear a bloodcurdling scream somewhere within from Lindir.

It would appear that the twins’ Umbarian Hissing Cockroach has survived the journey from Gondor.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Atani (Q) – men

Moratani (Q) - darkened men [credit goes to _dreamingfifi_ of _realelvish.proboards.com_ for the translation ^_^ ]

Laurelotya/Laurelotë (Q) – [my] golden flower

Fírimar (Q) – mortals

Fíriel (S) – female mortal

Gwarth (S) – betrayer, traitor

Ná (Q) – yes, it is so

Balc (Westron) - horrible

 

* * *

_That Finrod might have fallen in love with Amárië when they were both children is quite canonical. In Morgoth’s Ring, Tolkien wrote that it was not uncommon for the Eldar to marry young and choose each other in childhood. I have several versions of the Finrod-Amárië love story in my head, so I have left it quite open why it might have taken Finrod a thousand years to win her hand. She might have reciprocated, but circumstances beyond their control may have thwarted their relationship, even many years before the darkness and the doom fell. I’m also toying with the idea that she might have friendzoned him for a long, long time._

_Maeglin’s intercepting Aryo’s letters is based on real life. Intelligent, confident, articulate career women I know who have teenaged children and astonished me by confessing to regularly peeking into their teens’ journals (mothers seem to have a knack for sniffing out these secret places) or checking their teens’ phone texts. Nothing more paranoid than a mother watching over her child’s heart—or checking on who is trying to get into her kid’s knickers or boxer shorts. I think both I and Glorfindel would never, ever do that. I would like to think so, at least._


	31. Forest Shadows

Soundless prayers from elven lips sped to Araw Lord of the Hunt, giving thanks for the life to be taken, in the moment that the arrow flew, swift and sure. The deer staggered, then fell, its death quick and painless.

Three elves emerged from the leafy shadows into which they had blended, clad in the green and brown leather of the Woodland King’s bodyguard. The king himself, unstringing his bow, stood tall and calm beneath the trees in his hunting raiment, letting his _maethyr_ handle the animal. Only his pale hair gleamed in the dim, green light. A fourth bodyguard remained close to him, a young _ellon_ whose alert, azure eyes kept watch on the surrounding forest, and whose tresses were the same rare shade of silver-gold as his own.

The horses were summoned and the slain deer was laid across one of them; two of the guard would have to share a steed. Before the king mounted his own stallion, the young pale-haired _ellon_ said, “The breeze whispers of rain. Would you ride on or turn back, my liege?”

The king glanced casually at the youth before gracefully mounting his foam-grey steed. “Home, _Lasseg_.”

_Little leaf._

Three _maethyr_ exchanged silent looks, raised eyebrows and smiled wryly, as the youngest _maethor_ blushed with embarrassment to the tips of his pointed ears, kept his eyes on the woods around them, and avoided looking at anyone as he sprang lightly onto his own horse.

It was a silent ride back to halls, and if the king was aware of the slip he had made, he gave no sign of it.

 

She wore the brown and green of the Silvan royal guard as she perched in the tree, her flowing, raven-dark hair lifted by the wind as she lifted her bow, an arrow nocked in it, her face alert as her bright grey eyes glanced over her shoulder.

The young _ellon_ gazed in awe at the portrait. “She is _beautiful_ , Âr-Thranduil. She looks as though she is about to take flight, like a deer, or a wild bird.”

Thranduil’s eyes were fixed on his wife’s face. He did not speak for a while. “Even more swift and light was she in life,” he finally said, in a quiet voice. “None were swifter nor more silent in the woods than she.” He treasured this portrait most, rather than the one of her in her queen’s raiment, standing at his side with the crown of summer flowers matching his upon her head. Her heart had broken when the shadow from the south fell upon her beloved forest, and she had hunted the spiders relentlessly with the guard. And been slain by the monsters, in the end, when Legolas was but four years out of her womb. Thranduil had set the portrait on this wall that it might look out of the south-western window high in the halls. Through it, she would see the endless canopy of her forest, a restless sea of dancing green stretching to the horizon.

The youngest elf in Ennor stood arrow-straight, willow-slender, tall as the king he now served and protected. He was clad in darker shades of woodland brown and green than the _elleth_ in the portrait, the leather armour of the king’s own bodyguard. He wondered if the king gave each of his handpicked bodyguards this tour of his private portrait gallery. And all alone. As far as he knew, all guards and attendants were made to wait outside when the king entered here.

Wrenching his eyes from Lothuial’s face, Thranduil swept on up the gallery in long, spring-green robes embroidered with white and silver leaves and flowers. The crown of spring flowers on his head was not unlike the one he had been wearing when Arman first met him—the one a baby had seized from the royal head and taken a mouthful of.

Arman and his family were no strangers to the Woodland Realm. Thrice ere he came of age had he visited these halls, and many were the friendships he had formed over the years. Twice since he came of age had the king himself invited him to draw bow in the archery tournament held here every thirty _idhrinn_. And both times had he taken the champion’s prize—a feat which had not swelled his head. He knew he had probably won only as neither Legolas nor Glorfindel had competed. From the king’s pride and pleasure, one would have thought it was his own blood that had won. “As though he had been your archery master himself,” muttered Aryo. “All he did was give you your first bow. ’Tis _Atto_ who trained you.”

There had been a time, not too long ago, when Arman had held the king’s hand and skipped at his side through the corridors of these halls, chattering gaily like a little bird, and the king had smiled down at him indulgently. But he was full-grown and a _maethor_ now, and this his new master and monarch. The youth kept pace with Thranduil, maintaining a respectful arm’s length from him as they walked, his chin slightly lowered in deference.

The king had stopped before another portrait, a very old one done in a different style. An _elleth_ reclined upon a couch, her body gracefully angled, gazing down at them from the wall. She had long, slender limbs, pale silver-gold hair flowing over her shoulders, and azure-blue eyes. The faint smile that graced her sweet lips looked wistful and enigmatic.

Thranduil was gazing penetratingly at Arman in a manner that baffled the young _ellon_.

“What think you of her?”

“She is exquisitely lovely, Âr-Thranduil. And I believe she resembles _Aranion_ Legolas and _Arathe_ _l_ Teliaris.”

“Indeed. Anyone else?”

“And you, of course, _Aran-nín_. In the hair and the eyes.” The austere, ageless beauty of Thranduil’s chiselled features were those of his noble father Oropher, and it was not hard for Arman to guess that he gazed upon Oropher’s late wife.

“And no one else?” the king asked softly.

Arman was silent for a moment before he spoke cautiously. “Well… there are those who say I have some likeness to Lego—to the _Aranion_ … so perhaps myself, just a little.” The way he blushed, recalling how he had praised Rílel’s beauty earlier, made him look very young.

“A _little_.” Thranduil gazed piercingly, though not unkindly, at his _maethor_. He reached out to take Arman by the chin and turned the youth’s face to the light from the window. “How modest. You look more like my late _emel_ than ever my son or my beloved ass of a sister ever did.”

Perplexed, all Arman could think to reply as the king still held his chin was, “The likeness you perceive flatters me, Âr-Thranduil.”

“Does it not make you wonder how this should be so?”

“Well... neither my Adar nor my Naneth know their parentage… might there be some distant kinship to your _emel_ unknown to us?… forgive me if that seems presumptuous, _Aran-nín_ , but I can think of no other explanation apart from mere chance.”

For a moment, the king scrutinized his guard’s fine, delicate features with cool azure eyes. _The boy truly knows nothing._ “Indeed, I would agree.” It was an old rumour. The king knew it had been whispered throughout his realm ever since the pale-haired infant had first visited a century and twenty years ago. Let them whisper. He released the youth’s chin, and patted his cheek lightly. “But we shall never know, shall we? Dismissed. Wait outside.”

Baffled, Arman bowed deeply and walked away with his father Glorfindel’s long, graceful stride, feeling the eyes of the king on his back still.

 

How Arman came to be Thranduil’s bodyguard had begun the previous summer in Ithilien. As the twins and Legolas had sat high in the branches of a tree one starlit night, Legolas had reminisced about life in the Woodland Realm, and his years in the forest defending the marches of the realm.

“I could see myself as a marchwarden,” Arman had said, eyes sparkling. “That would be the life for me.”

“It would not be as exciting as it was in my day,” Legolas had said, recalling the era of spiders and _yrch_ and assorted foul creatures of darkness. “Letters from Ada complain of the interminable nuisance of _edain_ poachers and trespassers, travellers lost or hurt in the woods, and the occasional forest fire caused by lightning or camp fires. Oh, and ordinary wolves, not wargs.”

But that was no deterrent to the young elf who deeply loved forests and all creatures in it, and who dreamed of a life in the treetops under the sun and stars. So Legolas had written a letter for the twins, and sent them off north to his father with it.

Thranduil had eyed Aryo with the same bored distaste he normally reserved for golden-haired balrog-slayers. Aryo was the same height as his twin, slightly broader in shoulder from smithing, and his hair, though duller than his father’s, glowed like spun gold in the light falling through the ceiling of Thranduil’s high throne room. His features were pure Noldorin—Fingolfin, not Finarfin’s line, as his parents agreed with smiles. Of that he was blissfully ignorant—or how his parents remarked to each other that he looked like a young Turgon.

The Woodland King had peremptorily despatched the elder twin to the smithies in the bowels of the caverns.

Languidly elegant in autumn silks of copper and russet, crowned with a wreath of orange-red leaves and bright scarlet autumn berries, the king had looked down thoughtfully at Arman from his carved throne. He took the measure of Orlin Glorfindelion in a heartbeat. Sweet-natured, open, affectionate and generous, unassuming, loyal to the death. Like his father. What should he do with the young _ellon?_

The young elf had stood patiently, still and slender under the scrutiny, his pale hair shimmering in the mid-day sun pouring into the cavernous throne room through the skylight above.

“You will join the _maethyr_ within our halls,” the king had said at last.

Arman’s azure eyes had widened, startled. “But Âr-Thranduil, Legolas—”

Thranduil’s mouth had hardened ever so slightly. “Too long has Legolas been away. He has little grasp of the needs of this realm anymore. We have little use for yet another warden on the marches. If you would serve us, you will serve us in these halls. And take the oath of service and allegiance as all others in the guard.”

Arman had been silent for only a brief moment. His father had served and protected kings and their descendants all his two lives, and here he was, trained from childhood as a warrior, standing before the last elven king of Ennor. Feeling the hand of destiny, Arman had knelt gracefully upon one knee at the foot of the throne. “ _Athon,_ _aran-nín._ I will, my king. _”_

And so it had begun. The next morning, the king heard a musical laugh as he passed the training hall and thought of both Legolas and Glorfindel. He went to a walkway overlooking the training, and watched Arman spar with several other _maethyr_. The young _ellon’s_ light, swift attack and bright smile brought Thranduil back to the day he had first seen Glorfindel at Lindon, shortly after a ship arrived from Valinor.

If Ereinion Gil-galad had hoped to keep it a secret, he would have had to keep the golden lord locked up in his highest tower after the white swanship docked at Forlond. From the moment the tall golden lord had walked into the court in the High King’s retinue, whispers had run through the court and from thence into the city. With neither confirmation nor denial from the king’s council, the whispers had grown and gathered. _Look at that hair! bright and golden as Anor’s rays… a Vanya?... a Noldo, they say… his name?... Glorfindel... Elbereth!_ _Surely not the balrog-slayer?…_ _It is he. Sent by the Valar themselves… Holy Eru! back from the dead?... the hero from Gondolin?… THE_ _Glorfindel?… yes, there is only one…_

The whispers reached Thranduil, in Forlindon with his sister Teliaris as their father’s emissaries for a season. Intrigued, they had gone to spy on the courtyard where the reborn _golodh_ hero was sparring with the High King’s knights. The first thing he had heard was that warm, melodious laugh, joyous and light and free. Then he had seen him. Glorious and golden, swift as the wind, the light of Valinor in his eyes as he wielded a practice blade and held his own with mesmerizing grace and ease against ten of the king’s best warriors. Gil-galad himself stood on a balcony and watched with Elrond Halfelven at his side. _This is a game to him_ , Thranduil had thought, watching the joyous light in Glorfindel’s face— _this is play_.

Thranduil’s Sindarin friend Faervel had sniffed with disappointment at the warrior’s tall but slender build and lighthearted mien. “Neither as fearsome nor as formidable as one would have imagined. Did he _dance_ the balrog to death?”

 _Faervel is a fool_ , Thranduil had thought, seeing the deadly skill evident in the fluidity and lightness of each move, the quick thought that went into every move and parry and thrust as he outwitted and outmaneuvered them all. Thranduil could feel the strength tightly leashed in the slender frame, and the power masked behind the friendly banter and warm smile.

Within fifteen minutes, all the king’s knights had been disarmed and were out of the game. The warriors bowed to each other, and then to the High King, who walked down and grasped the balrog slayer’s hand with a smile, then cheerfully called for another sword that he himself might spar with the Valar’s warrior.

“He is… magnificent,” Teliaris had murmured at her brother’s elbow, with a predatory gleam in her eye. Thranduil had shot her a withering look. Not long after, he had hauled his elder sister back to Amon Lanc in southern Eryn Galen, as the woodland realm’s capital then was, before she disgraced their house by any efforts to bed the balrog slayer. _Of all the foolish ellith… she is unworthy of the title Araniel,_ he thought angrily. He himself still wore the new title _Aranion_ uneasily. Their father Oropher had just become _Taur,_ or _Aran,_ over his remnant of the Iathrim and several tribes of the Tawarwaith, the Silvan folk, who wandered through the forest.

When the letter from Gil-galad arrived seven centuries later, in the year 1693 of the Second Age, Oropher was lord over four thousand Silvan and Sindarin elves and his seat of power had moved further north, to the caves of the Emyn Galen, later called Emyn Duir, wherein he had shaped halls in the likeness of Menegroth.

Oropher had read of the war against Sauron in the distant west beyond the Hithlaeglir, and frowned at the missive. “What is the fate of the _golodhrim_ to us? Did the _golodhrin_ king’s people intervene when his uncles, the kinslayers, descended like rabid wolves upon Doriath? What manner of fool is he, to expect our aid for that spawn of Fëanor?” He had spat out the hated name like a curse, not caring that Fëanor’s grandson had never spilled kindred blood, and had been but a babe-in-arms at Alqualondë.

The letter had been tossed into the flames. “Let them rot in Mandos. We have enough to concern us here, with Gorthaur’s might growing in the south.”

In four years, Celebrimbor was dead, Eriador overrun by Sauron, and a second messenger had come. This time, the plea for help came not from the High King but from his lieutenant—the halfelven descendant of the great Elu Thingol and of Elmo, cut off from Lindon as he retreated north and east along the River Bruinen with the balrog slayer and hundreds of the survivors of Eregion.

This time, Oropher had let his son ride forth with two hundred warriors, leaving behind a pouting Teliaris. Thranduil had travelled through the mountains, and in them he met a warrior golden as the sun. Glorfindel had ridden out on his snow-white horse to meet them in the High Pass, and led them into the valley cleft where Thranduil’s halfelven fourth cousin had taken refuge. And there the Sindarin lord stayed for the next three years, as the forces of Sauron besieged the elven haven of Imladris. He had seen at last how stern and terrible in battle the balrog slayer could be—fair and bright as the morning rising, but with power almost as the one of the gods, deadly as Urion, herald of Aran Einior, as he carved his way through the enemy. And seen his frailty too, as he bled more than once by always placing himself where the fighting was fiercest. Thranduil’s friendship with Glorfindel had been forged in that crucible of battle, in the hardships and camaraderie of the siege, as they held the south-western and north-eastern passes of the valley and made frequent sorties to harass the enemy camp. The prince and the warrior had been _gwedyr,_ sworn brothers, long ere succour from the Númenoreans arrived, Sauron retreated, and peace had returned to Eriador.

But the friendship had not survived Dagorlad… and what had come after.

Looking at the Glorfindelion as he sparred, Thranduil saw that same lightness and speed, and something of the skill and style of the father who had taught him, though the youth’s strength was in archery more than the sword.

The session over, Arman lowered his sword, and listened with grave attentiveness as Maemegil, the captain of the guard, spoke to them. The likeness to Legolas was so great that Thranduil laid aside all thought and simply stared.

No. This was not Legolas. This was not his son. It was a green boy who had never faced an orc or monstrous spider, let alone a balrog, a boy who had never slain more than wolves and game. A boy sprung from the loins of an _ellon_ Thranduil had come to loathe. He struggled, willing himself to see the father in the son, to feel some stirring of resentment and dislike for the youth. But he could not.

Legolas looked like Glorfindel too, the king had long realized, though he disliked thinking of it… the mouth, the eyes…

The youthful _maethor_ looked up, and with his sword he saluted Thranduil with a radiant smile. And all the king could see was his son again.

 

Most of the king’s guard were in the forest, and on the marches of the realm north, south, east and west. The odd troll or warg would come wandering in, mostly from the Withered Heath, and many were the intrusions of dwarves or men travelling through the forest. A number of these would glance at the surrounding forest nervously, sensing but never seeing the Tawarwaith moving swift and silent through the trees around and above, a secret escort watching and following the intruders till they left the eaves of the woods.

Only seventy _maethyr_ fortified Thranduil’s halls in the north-east of the woods, a far cry from the glory days of Oropher’s reign. Dagorlad had decimated the forces of the realm, then the Battle of the Five Armies… loss upon loss, and as the Third Age drew to a close, there had been no more elflings born. The army had survived the Battle Under the Trees at the end of the Third Age with minimal casualties, and Thranduil acknowledged, a shade grudgingly, that Glorfindel’s tactics and training had played no small part in that. 

Arman’s new life involved daily training and hunting for game for the kitchens, which he enjoyed. He liked much less the endless rounds of sentry duty. He would not have minded being posted more to the wooded hilltops above the caverns, where the winds blew strong and one could see the Lonely Mountain and Dale in the east, and the endless canopy of the Green-leaved Forest as it stretched out west and south. But for much of the time it was guarding the gates, or the treasury, or the throne room, or guarding the dungeon whenever _edain_ were caught for poaching white deer or for cruelty to animals or trees.

Something happened at the end of that first winter to disrupt this tedious routine. Tawarwaith came running to the halls with tales of a large, slavering _gaur_ , a werewolf. All the wardens on the marches and in the forest searched for it, and the king and his guard themselves rode out to hunt the foul beast, but they found it not. Only the torn corpses of deer and hares it had savaged. And the remains of three _ellyn_ and an _elleth._

The elves ventured out into the forest only in groups and escorted by the guard. The king’s three counsellors quickly chided him for his habit of going out on solitary rides, even if fully armed.

“Bring your guard, _aran vuin,_ ” pleaded his lords, who had been friends and advisers to Oropher, and once served Thingol in Doriath.

In the Third Age, in the dark years when the shadow grew over Mirkwood, the king had gone forth from his gates surrounded by three to six members of his elite bodyguard. In the Battle Under the Trees these proud warriors had taken the brunt of the attack. Some had fallen. Others, as _gwedyr_ of Legolas, had been given leave by Thranduil to accompany him to Ithilien. The king had then dispensed with bodyguards altogether, and oft enjoyed the freedom of riding his forest alone.

Now, urged by his lords, the king chose four _maethyr_ to guard his person. When he named the last, not one of his three counsellors dared speak their minds. _A green boy… untried in battle...most unwise, even if the son of Ennor’s greatest warrior… you favour him too much… all can see it… how in this boy you seek consolation for the absence of your son…_

Thranduil read it writ plain on their faces anyway. And coolly ignored them.

 

In spring, it was the wardens on the northern march who slew the _gaur_ , with half a dozen flaming arrows. But thereafter, a shadow of unease lingered, as unanswered questions remained. Had the _gaur_ slipped past the marchwardens from the Withered Heath? Had it been asleep long ages in a lair deep within the woods, and just awakened? Were there other _gaurhoth_? So throughout the spring, all the elves went into the woods with companions and well-armed as a precaution. The king’s lords urged him to continue taking his bodyguards with him.

By midsummer, he took just one.

On these long rides in the woods, the king would sometimes talk to his young _maethor_ , sometimes ask him for a song. Occasionally, he would even laugh at something the boy said. When Arman mentioned that he had enjoyed crafting jewels at Imladris, the king had looked surprised. “I had thought that a lost skill.” Lost with the Gwaith-i-Mírdain of Eregion, who had been slaughtered by Sauron or long since sailed.

“My _naneth_ taught me.”

“And how would she have learned it? She is little more than a child herself, not yet two _în_ , I believe.”

“My _naneth_ is brilliant. She discovered the secret to _ithildin_ on her own. She knows the First Age techniques of working metal, both of the elves and the dwarves.” But he had nothing to say of how his mother had acquired this ancient knowledge.

Thranduil had looked thoughtful. “Intriguing,” he had said.

Arman had noted ever since he was a child that the king rarely addressed him by name. Occasionally, _Orlin_. Never, ever _Glorfindelion_. Sometimes, _young one_. Nowadays, Arman found himself mostly called or summoned with a curt _“ech”_ —“you”—as though Thranduil, aware of his own partiality to the youth, sought to deny it. Over the year, there had been a few occasions when the king had called Arman _Iôn_ or _Lasseg,_ mostly when they were alone. They would both pretend it had not happened, and for some days following one of these lapses, the king would be cold and curt to the young guard, which baffled and hurt him a little.

It was not only with the king that the occasional confusion happened. It occurred in different parts of the Woodland Realm every now and again—in the training hall, the stables, along the corridors, in the kitchens. The captain of the guard had himself several times called Arman “Legolas”, and laughed heartily when he realized his unthinking slip.

 

Arman raced through the caves to their bedchamber when news of the epic quarrel in the smithy spread like wildfire through the halls. Loud, angry voices had rung through the tunnels, and hammers and tongs had been flung. “Aryo! What are you doing?” Arman cried in dismay as he stood in the doorway.

There was a nip of _iavas_ in the air as the days shortened. The twins had been in Eryn Lasgalen for almost a year.

“I am sorry, _hanno._ I am taking my _golodhrin_ face and skills to Erebor.” Aryo had a scowl worthy of their mother on his fair face as he shoved his belongings into his packs.  “I am _done_ with that tyrannical ass Angurunir calling me _boy_ and insisting I use only _his_ techniques in _his_ smithy. _Ammë_ is twice the smith _he_ is, that stiff-necked despot. He would have me make naught but nails and horseshoes and arrow heads for the next century should I stay. He flies into a fury if I try my hand at so much as a dirk. I am like to enjoy a better welcome and greater freedom and trust amongst even the dwarves.”

Doriath’s ancient master-smith boasted of having forged swords for Thingol himself. He had lost his wife and sons in the sack of Doriath, and seeing echoes of the kinslayers in Aryo’s features had not helped his love of the youth. Maeglin herself had steered clear of the Sindarin smith during her visits to Eryn Lasgalen, recalling some rather choice epithets her father Eöl had awarded the Doriathrin smith, long ages past.

Aryo buckled a pack shut, his mouth set in an angry line. “Only for love of you have I stayed so long, and endured working under that dragon.”

Arman was pale. “We have never been apart before. We _belong_ _together_.”

Aryo grew calm but remained resolute. “We do. Come with me, then. Let us return home to Imladris.”

Arman shook his head. “I took an oath. I will not seek release when I have barely completed a _coranar_ of service. Stay! If not at the smithy, then join me in the guard. They could always use a skilled sword like you.”

“Oh? Even should Thranduil’s favourite coax him to grant me a place in the guard, I am not like to enjoy it. The king detests me almost as much as Angurunir does. Almost as much as he dotes on _you_. He might bear with me for your sake, and to keep you here, but I would probably languish in dungeon duty or freeze my ass off on the hilltops above us throughout the winter. Forgive me, _hanno_. I must have my craft. I shall oft write and send birds from Erebor. Or Dale. Whichever place grants me space in a good forge to work in peace. Come drink mead with me when you may. I shall be but a day’s ride east.”

Arman said nothing. He stepped forward and held his brother tightly. And Aryo, hugging him back, angrily blinked away a secret tear.

 

Thranduil and his young bodyguard found the tracks in the woods as gold and russet began to touch the foliage on the trees. They rode westwards following the prints, along the Tawarhir, the Forest River. The ground rose. The churning white water flowed with a roar in the gorge to their left as they rode along a high escarpment. Then they smelled it… the foul stench of carrion. The dark presence of a great evil crawled along their skin and lifted the hair on their necks. It was an all-too familiar sensation to the king who had fought with the Last Alliance and ruled Mirkwood for three millennia, but it was Arman’s first experience with evil of this nature since he had seen wargs and _yrch_ as a tiny baby. Even as they strung their bows and reached for arrows, the youth said, “Sire, we should turn back—”

The evil shadow came loping out of the trees ahead, drawn by the scent of elves, black fur bristling, eyes molten red. Standing on its two hind legs, it was larger than the one that had been killed on the northern marches. It was taller than the elves on their horses, and at the sight of them it bared its long, razor sharp fangs and snarled ferociously and slavered. Then it broke into a lightning-swift gallop towards them.

Almost faster than a mortal eye could see, both king and guard had loosed two arrows each in quick succession, even as their horses screamed and reared, spoiling shots aimed at eye and throat. The horses in this realm were born in the Fourth Age, not pure-elven ones, and whatever battle training they had received had not prepared them for the terror of a charging _gaur_. As the arrows flew wild, the _gaur_ gathered speed as it lunged right at the king.

Thranduil had drawn his sword when the _gaur_ sprang powerfully at him. He was swinging the blade on the leaping werewolf when a blur of green and brown and flowing white-gold hair flew from his right and barrelled into the beast in mid-air, knocking it away from its prey. Thranduil’s blade sang through empty air as his _maethor_ and the werewolf were hurled off the steep cliff by the momentum of the youth’s leap, and plummeted sixty feet into the gorge that fell away to their left.

With a curse, the king looked down over the cliff edge in time to see his guard surface in the turbulent waters of the Tawarhir, followed by the _gaur_ as the torrent swept them eastwards back towards the elvenking’s halls. Most _gaurhoth_ are strong swimmers, and as the river current pushed them together, the _gaur_ hurled itself at the elf and both vanished under the water.

The king rode swiftly back along the escarpment, trailed by Arman’s horse. If the _gaur_ did not kill the boy, he was like to be dashed against the rocks by the whitewater. He saw them surface again, locked in a fearsome struggle. Tall boulders loomed in Thranduil’s path, and he lost sight of the river as he skirted around them. Emerging from a grove of beeches, he came back to the cliff’s edge and saw the river again. The combatants were nowhere in sight. The fast-flowing water must have carried them further down. He rode on till the ground descended to meet the river, and reached the confluence of the waters of the Luithir and the Tawarhir. Here, the river widened and its flow was less fierce. He espied the _gaur’s_ body tangled in some rocks on the far shore. There was a wound in its left ribs, probably inflicted by a sword blade. And from its throat protruded a dirk jammed up to its hilt.

Heart in his mouth, Thranduil scanned the river and its banks, and finally saw a gleam of silver-gold further downriver by some rocks. Riding over and dismounting swiftly, he waded in to his waist, and pulled the boy out onto the river bank. His face was white, blood trickling from a gash on his head—from a rock, not fangs, Thranduil thought. His leather armour was rent by fang and claw, and he lay limp and still. His eyes were shut, his lips tinged with blue.

The king pumped water out of the boy till at last he coughed. And as he coughed and retched weakly, Thranduil checked him over for other injuries. Apart from the wound on his head, there were fang wounds on his hands and forearms, and claw marks on his body, but miraculously, he had escaped a severe mauling.

The king ripped a strip off the hem of his own knee-length tunic. “You little fool,” Thranduil said in a voice tight with anger as he bandaged the boy’s head. “Pull an idiotic stunt like that again and you are out of the guard.”

Arman turned his head slowly and looked at the Woodland King wearily, blinking as the king, frowning and hard-mouthed, gently wiped a trickle of blood away from the boy’s azure eyes with his own silk sleeve. A corner of the youth’s mouth lifted slightly in a lopsided smile. He managed a nod of his head, then shut his eyes and slipped back into unconsciousness.

 

“My brother the gaur-slayer.” Aryo smiled as he spooned broth into his twin’s mouth.

Arman had a fractured foot from the fall, was bruised black and blue from being battered against rocks in the river, had twenty fine stitches on his head and numerous other wounds from the claws of the creature. But he could be grateful its fangs had not mauled his hands and arms too badly. “And you can thank the Belain that your fair face was not touched,” said the Sindarin healer. Elven flesh heals rapidly, young elven flesh even more so. Arman would soon be able to draw bow and wield blade again.

“I lost my sword,” said Arman forlornly.

“I will make you one even finer than that,” boasted Aryo.

“Do not _ever_ let _Ammë_ hear you say that.” Maeglin had made a sword for each of her sons when they came of age. “I have a mind to dive for it till I find it.”

“How does it feel to be a hero?”

“It was not heroic in the least,” said Arman, feeling oddly uncomfortable. “I did not think, I did not feel any fear. I just… acted.” That was what their father had tried to tell them about the balrog, he thought.

_“I was not brave. I could only see clearly what had to be done and do it,” Glorfindel had said. “Thought and act became one, leaving no room for fear.” He had looked gravely at his sons. “Remember this—that it is those who fear and who yet overcome who are truly the bravest…”_

“Oh—Maemegil told me to give this back to you when you woke up.” Aryo brought out Arman’s dirk, clad now in a beautiful new sheath at the order of the king. The _maethyr_ had recovered the dirk when they had burned the body of the beast so that it would not befoul the waters of the Tawarhir. The dirk, too, was the workmanship of Maeglin.

Arman looked at the dirk thoughtfully as Arman laid it upon the bed covers next to his bandaged hands. “You know who I think is truly brave? Findaráto Arafinwion. I had armour and arrows, a sword and a dirk, and no time for fear to sink in. He was naked and unarmed. And he had time enow… days… to do naught but think of the _gaur_ , and hear it… to see what it could do, as it killed his men before him one by one… and to know what it would do to him… to wait each minute for it to come... And still he refused to break, and still he kept his vow with his bare hands and teeth. He was a true hero, and there was nothing pretty about it. He must have been savaged beyond recognition.”

They were both silent for a moment as they sat in the healing halls, thinking of the brave and noble gaur-slayer… the golden-haired prince who, unbeknownst to them, was their own grandfather.

“Have more broth before it gets cold,” said Aryo, and lifted another spoonful to his twin’s lips.

 

One snowy evening in _rhîw,_ the king and some of his guard returned from a long ride on which they had put down a badly injured mother bear that was beyond their healing or help. From the wounds, it must have been ordinary wolves, not a _gaur_.

The elves had tracked down the newborn cubs only to find them dead in their den. Eru alone knew why the mother had left her cubs alone in the first place… The elves were rather sombre as they rode back in thickly falling snow. After they had dismounted in the halls, attendants relieved the king of his cloak and hunting gear, and two of the _maethyr_ escorted the king to his dining hall. Once the king was seated, the _maethyr_ bowed and turned to leave, but Thranduil caught Arman’s eye and commanded crisply, “ _Ech—dartho!”_

So Arman remained behind, standing at attention and still clad in his winter cloak and with his bow, quiver and weapons on him, the fine layer of powdered snow on him melting and seeping into his hair and cloak. In this small hall where the king took his private dinners in winter, the oval table of translucent white quartz could seat twelve. Down the length of the table, across from the king, was the chair where his queen had once sat, and then his son. A simple dinner was laid on the table. A winter quail roasted to perfection. A golden-crusted herb bread. Hot soup. A compote.  The king dismissed his musician and two attendants.

Once all had left, Thranduil eyed Arman. “Take that off. Be seated.” He sounded tired.

Removing his cloak and gloves, his weapons and gear, Arman set them against a wall, then looked hesitant. “Where do you wish me to sit, Âr-Thranduil?”

Thranduil’s eyes lingered on Legolas’ high-backed chair of carved oak for a moment, across from his own. The king had seated a twelve-year-old Arman there before, when the elfling’s little feet had just extended over the edge of the seat, and he had not understood the significance of the honour. But now…

Thranduil indicated the chair at his right hand. “ _Sí.”_

Arman seated himself in the chair, looking a little uncertain. Ever since that day by the Tawarhir, when he had slain the _gaur_ , the king had taken care not to be alone with him. Through Maemegil, he had sent the youth one of the finest swords from his own collection of blades, in appreciation of his service. But when the young guard returned to his duties, Thranduil had seemed to be at pains to treat him no differently from any of the other guards. Arman had taken it in his stride, remembering what the healer in the halls had said to him.

“The king comes by daily, and enters only if I say you are sleeping,” the Sindarin healer had said one day as he changed the dressings of Arman’s wounds. “He comes and sits by your bed for a while. He leaves if you stir.”

“I see.” Arman had nodded, unsurprised.

The Sindarin healer had looked thoughtful as he snipped off the ends of the bandages on the left hand. “There are those who fear to love too much. There are those who fight it.”

Arman had thought the king loved him as an elfling. He had learned different as he grew older. “He does not love me. It is only his son he loves. It is his son he looks for when he looks at me.”

The healer had looked at him with ancient golden-green eyes. “It is both you and his son he sees and loves. You could be a very dangerous person in this realm, had you a grain of ambition or self-serving in your _fae_. You could be both hated and feared. Love confers power, and the king is not a man who has ever bestowed it lightly.”

“He has nothing to fear from me.”

“Has he not? He has loved only four persons unreservedly all his life. And lost them all.”

His parents, his wife, his son, Arman thought. “I do not seek his love. I seek only to serve and protect him.”

The healer nodded. “He knows that, and loves you all the more for it. Happily for all, you are too like your father. The _gwador_ of every _ellon_. And doted on by the _ellith_ , I must say. I have had a time of it chasing from my doors _Merbin_ damsels who aspire to warm your bed. A fine mess they would make of my dressings if I allowed it! They will have to wait till I discharge you.”

And the healer had swept out of the room leaving Arman speechless.

Now, in the dining hall, the king leaned back in his chair and with a languid wave of his hand offered all the food to Arman. “Eat.”

“Âr-Thranduil, it is _your_ dinner—”

The king frowned. “Eat. I am not minded to do so.” He reached out for the decanter and poured himself some wine.

 _“Le hannon,”_ said Arman, and obediently tucked in.

From the brooding look on the king’s face, Arman guessed that he was not in the mood for lively chatter, so he ate quietly. He imagined what Thranduil’s lonely dinners were like here. There were many feast nights, from spring to autumn, when the king ate with his people under the stars in their beloved woods. In winter, the celebrations of _Mereth Glyss Vinui_ and Yule moved to the Great Hall of Feasts. Other nights, the king dined privately, waited on by a few attendants and guards and a musician or two, sometimes with dancers. At times, his guests would be his stewards, his counsellors, his captains of the marches or the captain of the halls. Or his sister, whenever she happened to return, and only if he was in the mood to tolerate her company. Teliaris and Haldir had come to Eryn Lasgalen after the Rhúnaer War, and lived on the western marches of the kingdom much of the time.

Almost every third night, Thranduil chose to dine alone. Arman wondered if, like Aryo and his _Ammë_ Lómiel, the king actually rather enjoyed these moments of solitude. But his _Ammë_ yearned ever for his _Atto_ , and Aryo for him, Arman thought, even if they could forswear the fellowship of all others. Arman himself did not take too well to being alone. He missed his twin so intensely, it was like a perpetual ache.

Stealing a glance at Thranduil, he could not help but pity the monarch, bereft of family since Teliaris did not count for much, he imagined. As for friendships… Thranduil’s captain of the guard and a handful among his subjects had been friends of his since the early Second Age, and some like Angurunir and his lord counsellors had known him since Doriath. But all the _gwedyr_ dearest and closest to him had fallen at Dagorlad with Oropher, their blood spilled for him.

“Have more bread, _Iôn_ ,” Thranduil said rather absently as he leaned back in his high-backed chair, goblet in one hand, seemingly lost in some memory.

Much as Arman loved Legolas, as he dipped chunks of bread in soup and ate them he could not but feel that the _Aranion_ should not have stayed away for so long. Letters travelled dutifully and often between Ithilien and Eryn Lasgalen, but what did his absence say to his father?

_…Beloved Ada, forgive me for my abandonment of you. I regret I have not visited for these past hundred and twenty idhrinn. What would we do, ada-nín, but quarrel fiercely, and part in hurt and sorrow? It is better I do not come home..._

For Legolas, fearless warrior that he was on the battlefield, dared not tell his father of his plans to sail west. Not yet. _Yet surely the king knows,_ thought Arman. _Surely he can guess…_

_…The sea, Ada! It is almost all I dream of now. Ere long I shall set sail from these shores forever. But how could I ever hope to make you accept it? How could I make you understand? …_

Legolas had built a dozen ships over the years, each larger than the last, each able to venture out further and better able to withstand Ossë’s great waves and storms. He had sailed along the coastline to Edhellond and as far south as Umbar. How could the king not see what was coming next?

_…How do I say farewell?..._

“You may help yourself to the wine,” said the king, startling Arman out of his musings as he finished the compote. He reached for the decanter and refilled the king’s goblet before pouring a cup for himself. He would have preferred it mulled, but even in the freezing depths of winter, the king did not like his wine spiced and warmed.

“Was the dinner to your taste?” enquired the king.

“It was excellent, Âr-Thranduil.”

“Winter quail was ever a favourite of my son’s.”

“I am sure he misses it in Ithilien.”

“Not enough, it seems.”

In the awkward silence that followed, Arman could think of nothing to say.

Thranduil drank silently for a while. “When Legolas was twelve,” he said at last, his eyes distant and fixed on some point beyond the far wall of the room, “I took him for a ride in the winter woods, on the north-eastern edge of the forest. We found a bear cub in the snow, abandoned and half-dead. Wolves or spiders must have got the mother, and the starving cub had crawled out from its den.” He gazed into the remaining wine in his goblet. “I knew it was dying. I would have ended its misery with one swift knife stroke, but Legolas insisted we bring it back. He refused to leave its side for two days and nights. When it died, he wept for a week.” He emptied his goblet.

Arman thought of the motherless elfling mourning the motherless cub. He could think of naught to say but: “How strange, for a mother to leave her cub alone, so young… It goes against nature.” A nursing bear would never leave her cubs in midwinter, but remain with them in the den till spring came.

The king did not look at him. “She would not have done it needlessly,” he said softly. “It could only have been for her cub’s protection.”

“Yes,” said Arman, refilling the king’s goblet. “Only if there was a danger such as wolves.”

“Or spiders,” the king said quietly, darkly, and with loathing. He drank again.

 _I am truly putting my foot in it tonight,_ Arman thought. _Legolas’ mother gave her life to save him from the spiders…_ Which was why, from the moment he was old enough to hunt, the prince had devoted so much of his life to exterminating the monsters.

After a silence, Thranduil said, “Let us have a song. Sing us something.”

“Gladly, Âr-Thranduil. What song would please you?”

“Any will do.”

And for some reason, because it was the first thing that came to his head, Arman sang an ancient lay of Enel, the first father of the Nelyar, and of Elmo of the silver-gold hair… of his great journey west and his love for his brother Elwë… the adventures and deeds of Galadhon his son, and the tales of each of Galadhon’s children… Celeborn the tall, Galathil the strong, and Gilornel the fair… of the founding of Doriath and Menegroth, and the long, enchanted years in the light of Melian beneath the stars…

Arman’s strong, melodious voice, much like his father’s, wove a web of beauty and wonder as his song lilted. By the time he finished, the attendants had quietly cleared the table, refilled the decanter and laid out sweetmeats. They displayed no surprise to see the _maethor_ seated at the king’s right hand.

Thranduil sipped his wine. “Who taught you that song?”

“Lord Celeborn.” It had irked the ancient Sinda to realize that the twins’ knowledge of history was largely Noldorin. The pureblood had scorned both Erestor and Pengolodh’s half-Sindarin heritage.

“Ah. My revered great-uncle. Of course.”

Arman smiled. “He would make my brother and I walk beneath the stars by the waterfalls of Imladris, and sing it to him over and over till he was satisfied.” 

“He taught you well,” the king said. “Have more wine.”

Thirsty after his performance, Arman was happy to do so. Thranduil watched as he drank.

So… Celeborn had taught Rílel’s grandchildren to sing their Sindarin lineage, as their own father should have, thought Thranduil. As the silver lord had once taught young Thranduil his mother-line, and as Thranduil had taught Legolas. It was confirmation. All these years, the silver lord had known about Glorfindel. Had known, and conspired to hide this secret. Thranduil’s thoughts of his revered great-uncle had never been darker.

Just then, the king’s latest _elleth_ appeared at the doorway, a ravishing raven-haired creature with slate-grey eyes, almost black, flecked with gold.

“You may go,” said the king coolly to Arman.

 _“Le hannon, Âr-Thranduil. No vaer i dhû,”_ said Arman, rising and bowing. As he gathered up his cloak and weapons, he kept his face expressionless as the beauty seated herself on the king’s lap and slipped her hands into his robe. Well, Arman thought as he left the dining hall, at least the king would not be alone this evening...

As he left, Arman was composing a letter in his head to Legolas. _Come home. Please. Your father needs you…_

Then he felt something in his _fëa_ that he would never be able to mistake. With a luminous grin spreading across his face, he raced through the corridors towards his bedchamber in the guard’s quarters. As he approached, he heard an irate voice sharply raised. “I said, _no!_ Get out!”

The door of Arman’s room flew open, and two lithe, laughing lovelies were thrust out, and fell into his arms. He was immediately smothered with kisses and caresses, through which he saw golden hair and a familiar face scowling in the doorway.

“Orlin! _Meleth-nín!”_ “Tell your handsome brother to let us stay.” “A foursome! Just imagine! How deliciously delightful!”

“Oh, Eru! Absolutely not!” cried Aryo in disgust. “Get _off_ him and get lost! _Ego!”_ And wrenching the two fair ones off his twin, he gave each a none-too-gentle shove. They giggled and turned back to blow kisses at the twins as they lightly ran away down the corridor.

“Aryo! It is so good to see you!” cried Arman in their private mix of Quenya, Sindarin and Westron which was barely comprehensible to anyone apart from their parents. He threw his now-free arms around his twin.

“And you, you rogue. What have you been up to? I return after a season and our room is overrun by _ellith?_ Those two said they have been staying nights here for the past _three months!”_ Pulling his twin into the room, Aryo bolted the door.

“Well—either them or others—the bed can barely fit four,” said Arman, blushing a little as he hung up his cloak and quiver and sword belt. “It was lonely without you. Anyway, it was only a bit of harmless kissing and cuddling. Nothing more.”

“Eru, if _Amil_ ever found out, she would thrash you!”

“Mmmm… I _like_ kissing,” confessed Arman with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes as he threw himself upon the bed, knowing that his twin would never give him away. “If you would but try it! Such fair blossoms, all of them, and the way they feel… all soft, silken skin and hair, and warm curves…”

Aryo glared at his twin. “Most of those fair blossoms probably had several shots each at trying to bed our _Atar!_ Or Legolas. Did you never think of that?”

“So what if they did? None of them succeeded. And for all the kisses and cuddles in Arda, I have not forgotten what _Atto_ and _Ammë_ taught us. It was all within bounds of the laws and customs, so stop looking at me like that!”

“I hope sincerely that you have not been testing how far you can go ‘within bounds’. Can we mull some wine? I have a flagon and spices in my pack. The ride here was cold!”

Together, the twins began to gently heat and add cloves and cinnamon to some wine over the room’s small brazier. Aryo was still eyeing his twin and shaking his head. “Thank the Valar neither the Queen nor _Ammë_ ever found out how much kissing went on between you and the princesses during the Rhúnaer War,” Aryo said. “Nor their husbands, years on.”

Arman laughed at the memory as he poured and handed a cup to his twin. “It was never I who initiated any of it. They pulled me behind the tapestries.” Elraen and Elrían were Arwen and Estel’s twin daughters, aged fifteen in the last year of the war… slender, bright-eyed damsels taller than Arman, and curious about love as their eldest sister began to receive suitors. That had been almost a century ago, and the twin princesses were grandmothers now.

“They tried to pull me too, you forget. I said, ‘no’. An easy word. You should try it.”

Arman sighed, and taking the cup from his twin, drank from it. “ _Hanno,_ don’t be so dour. You have been with the dwarves too long!” He eyed his twin’s hair critically, and reached out to examine his braids. “You really _have_ been with the dwarves too long! Dwarven braids and beads? What did the guards at the gates say?”

“Nothing. They just stared.”

“The beads signify something, do they not? Did you get engaged to a dwarrowdam?”

“Friendship beads. And as if any self-respecting dwarrowdam would even give a beardless creature like me a second glance!” exclaimed Aryo, mock-ruefully.

“Was it refreshing to be the ugliest in a kingdom for once?” teased Arman.

“Oh, yea. My ego has been crushed. Multiple times. Whilst you made love to fair damsels nightly, I was suffering beard-envy and drowning my sorrows in mead.”

“And frequenting Dale’s taverns and fighting off scores of fair _edenith_ , I am sure!” Arman laughed merrily and hugged his twin tightly. “Oh Eru! You have no idea how much I missed you.”

“I have a very good idea how much, _hanno_ ,” replied Aryo gruffly, hugging him back fiercely.

“When will you return to Erebor?”

“I am not returning to Erebor. But neither am I here to stay.” Aryo looked grave. “It is time for us to head south.”

Arman returned the look blankly. “South?”

“Did a letter from _Atto_ not find you? He and _Ammë_ are in Gondor. They have sent letters to Imladris as well. In spring, our household will journey to Minas Tirith to celebrate Nost-na-Lothion.” He paused. _“All_ the household.”

Arman caught his breath, knowing what it meant. If all at Imladris were summoned to Minas Tirith, it was to bid farewell. “But I am bound by oath of allegiance to Thranduil. I shall remain till he releases me.”

Aryo looked sharply at his twin. “And when will that ever be? Did you think of that?”

“It will be when I ask. But I shall not ask now… not yet…”

Aryo had never understood the hold that Thranduil had seemed to have on Arman’s affections ever since he had been young, or the mystery of the likeness of Legolas and his twin. Had their _fëar_ not been linked since they shared a womb, Aryo might have thought his brother a changeling… “This is the summons of your _family, hanno_. The time has come to take our leave of the King Elessar and Queen Arwen, as we always knew it would.”

“Just latterly, in summer, King Elessar was hale.”

“It will be his gift to be hale till his time comes. For us, it will be time to return to Imladris soon. And to prepare to sail.”

Arman looked away. “I will be there when the ship sails. But till then, my place is here.”

Aryo caught his breath. “Your place has always been with me.”

“And will be again. Till then, I am bound and I will not be forsworn.”

“What claim does Thranduil have on you besides that bloody oath? Why will you not ask for release now?”

Arman was silent.

“Staying with him will not _help_ him, Arman!” said Aryo angrily. “With you, he relives old days when Legolas was still his dutiful, obedient little leaf, and cared naught for the world beyond this forest. How long before he decides that he cannot bear to lose you as he lost his son? And you are bound by oath as his son was not. He will not release you, the longer you wait. He released Legolas because he loved him and wanted his happiness. You will always be less to him. His little pet. Sometimes he strokes you, and sometimes he kicks you—”

“It is _not_ like that!”

“Either way, he will hold you to your oath.”

“I have no wish to be equal to Legolas in his eyes.”

“If you love this king you serve, you help him best by giving him what he truly needs. Persuade him to sail with his son.”

“And leave his beloved kingdom and his beloved forest? This forest full of memories of his father and his son, of his wife and queen?”

“He can stay and live on those memories till the unmaking of Arda, or sail and be with them. Be with her again.” 

Arman gazed into the flames of the brazier. “You are right,” he said. “Travel south first, _hanno,_ and join _Ammë_ and _Atto_ first _._ I will see if I may speak to the king.”

“And if he refuses, Arman, beg to be released from his service. Do not remain. You are no more than food for his ghosts. No good can come of it.”

So Aryo stayed a week longer, and then rode south along the eastern border of the forest.

As expected, after that night in the dining hall Thranduil was cold to Arman for some time, and the young _maethor_ had no opportunity to have even a word in private with the king.

Then, on a clear day in the coldest month of the year, a letter arrived from Ithilien.

The guards and attendants watched the king break Legolas’ seal, watched his face turn livid as he read the letter. Watched as he flung it furiously into the flames of a brazier.

“ _Out!_  All of you!”

They quickly filed out of the throne room, silent before his rage, not daring to murmur till the great doors were shut behind them.

The next day, the king gave the orders that he would ride south with his four bodyguards, and the counsellors were given the rule of the kingdom.

A light snow fell as they rode out the following morning. Grey clouds were looming in the west. _A storm is coming,_ Arman thought.

They spurred their horses and rode swiftly south.

 

* * *

_Glossary (alphabetical order)_

Aranion (S) – son of the king ( _suggested by dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com)_

Aran vuin (S) – beloved king

arathel (S) - king's sister

athon (S) – I will

dartho (S) – stay/remain/wait (imperative)

ech (S) – you _(emphatic – suggested by dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com)_

edenith (S) – mortal women (plural of adaneth)

emel (S) – mother

gwador (S) – sworn brother / brother not by blood

gwedyr (S) – sworn brothers / brothers not by blood

hanno (Q) – brother (informal version of háno)

iathrim (S) – people of Doriath

idhrinn (S) – year cycle (equivalent of coranar; somehow I felt I should use the Sindarin word here since this chapter is set in Eryn Lasgalen)

iôn (S) – son

lasseg (S) – little leaf (Thranduil’s pet name for Legolas since he was a child)

Luithir (S) – Enchanted River _(by dreaming fifi)_

merbin (S) – dark elves (with connotations of uncivilized, and rather derogatory I imagine)

Mereth Glyss Vinui (S) – Feast of the First Snows _(by dreamingfifi)_

rhîw (S) - winter

sí (S) – here

tain (S) – smiths (plural of tân)

Taur (S) – can mean both forest and leader of tribes. I use it as the latter for one title of Oropher.

Tawarhir (S) – Forest River _(by dreamingfifi)_

tawarwaith (S) – forest people

 

* * *

  _Hi all! I was swamped with RL for a bit, and thereafter getting back into writing was tough-going. I don’t know where this chapter suddenly came from, but I could not get over my block without focusing on the twins again._

_While I struggled with writing, I did something I should have done much earlier. I decided to go through some old chapters and check my elvish... some edits have now been made to earlier chapters. So the elvish is mostly accurate now, I hope, but I am knowingly choosing to take liberties with some elvish (just as I do with canon) - chiefly in keeping the inaccurate possessive construct "[noun]-nín" to express "my love", "my king", "my friend" in Sindarin. I think I also used fandom concoctions "Daeradar" (grandfather) and "Daernaneth" (grandmother). Tolkien wouldn't approve of those words, but I decided to keep them for pretty frivolous reasons - how they sound, and how much more economical they are than the accurate "Adar adar nîn” (father of my father) and “Naneth adar nîn” (mother of my father). Sorry, dreamingfifi! I take responsibility for this._

 


	32. The Spirits of Yule

I am sitting on the edge of Ecthelion’s fountain in the Square of the King, my bare feet dangling in its cool waters, breeches rolled up, as one might on a fair summer’s day.

 _How strange_ , I think. _This is something I would never have done._

All about is darkness and fire. The air is acrid with clouds of smoke and dust, loud with shouts and screams, the roar of firedrakes, and the clash of metal on metal. The crystal waters churning around my ankles are coloured with spreading swirls of dark crimson and black, elven and balrog blood mingling in death.

Suddenly, something icy cold in the murky depths catches my ankle. I give a choking gasp as Ecthelion rises from the fountain before me, his wet raven hair charred and bedraggled beneath his helm, its diamond-spike black with balrog blood. His drowned face is a ghastly shade of blue-grey. Silver eyes glassy in death fix on mine. Blood-stained water streams from his battered armour, scorched black from balrog flame.

“ _Aiya_ , traitor,” he says, his voice a rasping whisper, a mockery of his once-dulcet tones. “Welcome back.”

The world about us has fallen silent. No sound comes from my throat as I struggle in vain to speak. To explain. To beg forgiveness.

“Aye, welcome back, my lord prince,” whispers another voice into my right ear. I turn my head to see the grey, bloodless face of Penlod, blue-grey eyes glazed, his armour bloody and rent by axes, a broken-off spear protruding from his chest.

An icy hand closes like a vise around my throat and pulls me backwards. I fall hard onto the flagstones of the courtyard and stare up at the faces of the Lord of the Swallow and another. Their glassy eyes hold mine. Duilin’s bloodied armour is pierced with orcish arrows. The other is blackened and charred by dragon fire beyond all recognition... only his silver-green eyes glisten, and by them, I know him.

“Reckoning time, Mole,” the Lord of the Hammer growls. A raspy whisper like a blade on a whetstone. The sickeningly sweet, acrid smell of burned flesh and hair fills my nostrils.

Duilin’s hand holds my neck still, as he bends over me, his dead face close to mine. “What’s got your tongue, traitor? You sang easily enough, to Moringotto.”

“Long have we waited for you,” says Ecthelion, water dripping off him onto my face, as he leans in as though for a kiss.

No sound comes from my throat as I scream.

 

My heart is pounding wildly as I awaken. I am soaked in cold sweat… my throat is dry. Instinctively, my hand reaches over the sheets for comfort, and feels only emptiness. A sudden gust of cold wind blows through the woven screens and fills the darkened _talan_ with shifting patterns of shadows and silver moonlight dancing through mallorn leaves.

_Where is this? Where is he?_

Laughter and song and flute music float up from the pavilions below, and I remember.

It is Yule week in Ithilien. The woodland festivities will end in three days, then we shall return to Minas Tirith for the king’s banquet.

How long have I slept? I am shaking, but not from the cold wind. I slip out of bed and walk to the edge of the talan and pull open the woven screens. The restless wind whips through the shimmering golden branches and chases ragged drifts of dark cloud across the face of the moon. The moon is already low in the sky, setting over the lands of Lebennin.

_The longest night of the year, sunrise in two hours, and he is still at the feast, the bastard._

I gaze down from the flet at the Parth Glórin, the glade at the heart of Legolas’ realm, where three fair pavilions of cedarwood stand on a green sward surrounded by twelve tall mellyrn, Celeborn’s gift to Legolas when the Silvan prince first travelled south to establish his colony. They have flourished astonishingly in the warm climate of Gondor—not yet the size of the ancient trees in Lothlórien, but for many years already large enough to bear _telain_.

I let anger banish the dread of my dreams. Wifely anger that he is still making merry, irrational anger that he has somehow failed me. There was a time he would have sensed my nightmare, even if he slept, even if he was at the other end of the great house of Imladris. He would have come running to me. He would have banished the dark shadows with light and song, and I would have wakened to the warmth of strong arms and surrounded by the golden glow of his hair.

I see no golden hair amid the groups of dancers below. I had lost my taste for the festivities around midnight and returned to our flet, hoping he would follow soon after. Obviously he has decided not to. Obviously he is still having a fine time. I nurse my anger. I would rather be angry than desolate.

I had thought the loneliness of our separation during the Rhúnaer War years hard to bear. This is worse, in some ways. And it began not long after his return from the war.

 

The triumphant return of King Elessar and King Éomer from Rhúnaer had been celebrated with a week of feasting in the Merethrond. The bards heard the recounts of the warriors, and composed many a lay that honoured the dead and glorified the heroic deeds of the war. While most of the songs on the first night were devoted to the two kings and the warriors of Rohan and Gondor, by the second and third nights, King Elessar’s halfelven brothers and the Silvan prince of Ithilien received their share of glory as well. And Laurefindel of course. Song after song. His feats were of epic proportions, and I do not believe the bards exaggerated too greatly.

On the third night in the Merethrond, the songs were growing overinflated, even given what Laurefindel was capable of. Our twins sat on the other side of the banqueting hall and listened raptly, but Laurefindel soon lost his appetite and fell uncharacteristically quiet. As a bearded bard warbled in epic style of how the elven hero of ancient days had gone forth bright as the sun, swift as the wind, fairer than moon and stars, terrible as an army in battle array, the longsuffering ancient hero could bear it no longer. I feared he would go up to the dais and break the bard’s harp.

Instead, his fingers interlaced with mine under the table, and he pulled me out of the hall. Our twins, seated with their young _edain_ friends, would not miss us. We received curious looks from the Gondorians and Rohirrim to our left and right, but by then I think the usually courteous elflord did not give a troll-fart what they or the performing bards thought.

We slipped out of a side door, shut ourselves in a small storage chamber full of table linens and shelves of decanters and goblets, and in the darkness lit only by the glow of his hair, we fumbled with clothes fastenings and staggered against a pile of rolled-up tapestries against one wall. We did our best to drown out the muffled voices of the bards still audible through the heavy door.

An hour later, as we lay entwined on one of the tapestries that had fallen over and rolled open, he finally spoke his first words since we left the feasting hall. “Let us not go back. Shall we ride out to the Pelennor?”

“Uuhhh… yes,” I managed to utter, still dazed and breathless, my body wildly thrumming like the bards’ epic harp strings. It had been an amazing one hour, it had been epic. And yet… I was aware of a strange uneasiness. I felt incomplete. Somehow… empty.

Our coupling was, for him, never merely about lust. But for the first time I felt uneasily as though it had not quite been about love either. A seeking of comfort, perhaps. Or oblivion. I think it began then… his _fëa_ had begun to retreat from mine. It had begun to harbour its own secrets as mine once had from his.

 

In those first weeks after he returned, I would find his dreams entangling themselves in mine. The splatter of crimson as bodies crumpled in the path of destruction he swiftly cleared in the enemy ranks. The choking death-gurgles and final screams from men’s throats heard through the clangour of battle.

And he knew, whenever I looked into his eyes the following morn, that I had seen his dreams.

I wound one of his shining tresses around my finger as it lay across our pillows. “Talk to me. Tell me about it… what it was like to fight the _moratani.”_

Eyes fixed on the ceiling, he said, “Call them not such. In time, it is to be hoped, they may yet become allies of the Reunited Kingdom. Mayhap not in this generation of men, but the next.”

“ _Atani_ , then _…_ how did you feel, fighting them?”

“Feel?” He laughed lightly, gave himself a long, languorous stretch in bed, then rolled over to smile at me. “It was a war. They were the enemy. It was simple.”

I do not think he was lying. I think he chose to believe it himself. “But that first time, at the siege of Dharikân—”

“There is no more to the telling than you have already heard,” he cut me off shortly. “The _pereldar_ and Legolas and the bards have told it all.”

 

A week after his return from the Rhúnaer, I walked in on him polishing his two shining swords, his azure eyes dreamy and distant as he lovingly wiped them with a cloth, over and over. I gazed on with vague misgivings. Elven swords know no rust or tarnish, and _elentinco_ , this lustrous, white star-alloy created by Aulë, never even needed polish—just a good wipe after use.

“You cleaned and polished them only last week.”

“Just a little loving care for my battle wives.”

“They have no need of it. They are not rust-prone pieces of mortal-made crap.”

“’Tis not that they _need_ it… I simply felt like doing it.” He continued to gently rub at unseen stains on the blades.

“Well, put them away. Neither the winds nor Legolas will wait for us.” The Silvan prince had taken up ship-building as soon as he returned from Rhúnaer, and he wanted us to witness him take on the challenge of sailing his first small craft upriver.

Laurefindel smiled absently, gave the blades one final wipe, and slid them back into their scabbards.

Once we returned to Imladris, he laid the twin swords to rest in a wooden chest. And did not touch them again… or not, at least, when I was around.

 

I remember the last of his dreams of the war that merged into mine. It was that midsummer, in Ithilien.

I awakened in the same moment he did, my mind full of the images of the carnage of war. I rolled over and slipped my arm around him. “Are you all right?”   

I caught the haunted expression on his face in the moment before he wiped it away. “Fine, _vesseya_. I am fine.”

“Liar.” My eyes narrowed. “You were dreaming of Hrónairë—”

I felt a wall come up, shielding his mind and heart from my probing. “Yes, I dreamed. What warrior does not occasionally dream of battle? You dream still of the Nirnaeth Arnoediad every decade or so, do you not? It means naught. It was a war like other wars.”

“Before you left—you struggled with it—you said this war would _not_ be the same. You had taken no _atan’s_ life before—”

“I gave that no further thought once we were there—”

“The _children of Eru Ilúvatar_ , you called them—”

“And I sent them back to him with as much mercy as I could—”

 _“Mercy?”_ I leapt on that. “So—it _was not_ like other wars.”

“They deserved clean deaths. I gave them that. It weighs not on my conscience.”

“Yet I feel it, a—a _shadow_ upon your _fëa_.”

He laughed dismissively and glanced at me with affectionate exasperation. “Shadow!” he said with a scorn he could only have learned from me. “It was a fairly long war, and we are all a little weary, that is all. You make far too much of it.” He smothered me in a tight embrace and kissed and caressed me in a way that usually addles my ability to think—at least for few moments. “You worry over naught, _vesseya._ I am fine. Now, shall we get dressed and take the boys to the Pelargir Sailboat Festival?” He lifted me out of bed, pulled a white dress out of the clothes chest, and tossed it to me with a dazzling grin. “An hour downriver. We should be in time to catch the harbour race.”

And there were other kinds of dreams. A blindingly white mountain peak soaring steeply heavenwards. Surf rolling in on pearlescent beaches shimmering in starlight. Ethereal song and white swanships riding sparkling blue waves. Vast meadows clothed in unfading grass and flowers, in a land of eternal summers. And over it all, such a wistful, aching _longing_.

I would awaken, badly shaken, mesmerized by the sheer beauty of it all, and struggle against the yearning it awakened within me as well…

Those dreams he was far more willing to speak of. He told me all about Taniquetil… Avallonë… Oromë and Yavanna’s lands. The love of them was in his voice, and his azure eyes were wistful and dreamy.

I listened in silence, and finally said, “You should go. It is where you belong.”

He gazed softly at me. “It is where we all belong. We shall sail soon,” he said gently.

I was silent. I could hear the sea-song, feel Aman pull at me… and yet…

“We shall,” I said, willing myself to want it.

His eyes were sad for a moment, then it was as though a shield-wall had been raised. “Yes, we shall. When you are ready.” And he kissed me and smiled. “I am starving for breakfast. How about you?” And we spoke of it no more.

After we returned to Imladris, oft in his waking moments I caught a dreaminess in his azure eyes as in his mind he wandered beyond the Bent World to another realm. And catching my eyes upon him, he would begin to speak of things light and inconsequential. Hunting, what I wanted for dinner. He laughed and sang and chatted gaily as always. No one saw any change in him, save I.

And so brick by brick—or shield by shield—the wall was raised. Years passed, then decades.  Eldarion was born to Estel and Arwen.  Our boys came of age. Éowyn went the way of all mortals, then Faramir, a decade later. Elboron married one of the twin princesses and became a grandfather. Eldarion married one of Éomer’s granddaughters…

I glimpsed his dreams no longer—not of Rhûn, nor of Aman, nor of anything else. And so rarely did our minds meet in thought, that one day I looked at him as he laughed and joked with the others over the parlour dining table, and realized it had been over a year since we last spoke mind-to-mind.

So here we are. We share so much daily, eat and speak together, bathe, couple, sleep curled against each other’s bodies nightly. His kisses are still as sweet, his embraces still as passionate. But once we had… more. We had no secrets before. We could feel the movements of each other’s heart and mind. Two bodies, one life.

Now here I am, standing alone on an empty flet in Ithilien, shivering from my dream. And it stares me in the face—how neatly we have walled ourselves within the secret cities of our separate selves with a barrier so high it might as well be the Echoriad.

For I am equally to blame. Laurefindel tells himself lies. I know the lies I tell.

At Imladris, we all speak oft now of the journey west. Círdan has sent word: the ship is ready. And as I did in Gondolin, I smile and lie. _Yes, it will be good to sail soon. How I look forward to meeting all the exiles in Tol Eressëa._

“I should like to meet all the Lords of Gondolin, and King Turgon!” Arman said at one dinner two summers ago. “All save Maeglin, and Salgant, of course.”

I saw Laurefindel wince. I kept my face impassive.

“Imagine if they have built a new Gondolin, _Ammë,_ ” said Aryo. “Would it not be exciting to live there rather than in the middle of a forest?”

“Yes. How glorious that would be.” I smiled at my son and took a sip of wine. _You have no idea how exciting, yonya._

“The _Belain_ will surely aid you in finding all those lost to you,” Legolas said earnestly to me just last night. “How you must long to meet with your parents again.”

“I do. So much.” _My father will be in transports of joy to see his son again. His son… short of one fairly vital appendage and with some enhancements to the chest._

My reverie is interrupted by a sound on the ladder that winds around the bole of the tree to our _talan_.

The very fact that I am able to _hear_ him alerts me to trouble. I run to the ladder just as he appears through the semi-circular opening in the centre of the flet. He stands on the ladder swaying slightly, looks at me with unfocused eyes and gives me a beatific smile.

I stare at him in disbelief and anger. In the three hundred years I have known him, I have not once till now seen him this drunk. Not even that night at the Star Dome, when he had offered to train me in the basement. _“Vennoya_ ,” I say, a dangerous note in my voice.

“There you are, my lovely! Such an adventure, getting home.” He falls against me, clumsy as a newborn pup, and we end up on the floor in a tangle of limbs. His golden hair spills over me and across the floor, luminous in a shaft of silvery moonlight laced with leaf-shadows. “They all look alike, these _mellyrn_. I had no idea Rúmil and Merileth were married.”

“They are not.” I try to get up, but his arms are wrapped around me.

“Ooohh… is that why they asked me to join them?” He is warm and glowing and full of life as he laughingly kisses me, a perfect antidote to the dead lords in my dream. But it is comfort I want now, not passion. He tastes of Harondorian firewater—a vile brew from grape seeds that he would normally never touch. I pull back from his kiss with a grimace. “Hammer of Aulë, how much of that _muk_ did you drink?” I manage to clamber to my knees, his arm across my shoulders, and struggle to my feet.

“Just one cup.” He leans heavily on me as I haul him off the floor. “Legolas kept filling it, though.”

“Have you not been drinking with Legolas for centuries? How did you allow yourself to become so drunk this time?” We fall upon the bed together.

“Drunk?” he says wonderingly as he lies across me. “Spectacular. After seven millennia, something new.”

I roll him onto his back with a sigh, and begin to pull off his boots. He eyes my silk shift with distaste.

“Black. I hate you in black.”

“This is my one garment in black and I like it.”

“You were such a dark, disturbing boy,” he murmurs. “All-black garb, even after mourning was over…” I pull his tunic off over his head. “Gave us a shock, the way you liked to materialize all in black out of the shadows.”

“Precisely the effect I sought.”

“Well, off with this crow’s rag! You will always be most beautiful, my love, in what I saw you wear that first moment…” His smile is irresistably charming. “…nothing.” With a warm, hungry kiss, he slips the thin lace straps of my shift off my shoulders and pulls me down onto the bed.

I pull away and slap off his hands. “No! Down, boy! Not now. Just rest.” I leave his leggings on and lie down next to him.

He has closed his eyes. “So many of them tonight...” he says drowsily. “So many voices…”

I think he means the revellers below. “Yes, more than before. I wish Legolas had not invited _atani_ and _casári_. It is getting too crowded, and the mortals get pig-drunk and rowdy and misbehave. I can bear it not.”

“Oh, so you hear them too? Talk to them. They cannot seem to hear me. Mayhap they will hear you. I had to. It was war… tell them I am sorry. So sorry.”

On this mild winter’s night in Ithilien a chill descends on me like a northern winter. “Them…? Who… from the Hrónairë?”

“Mmm-hmm…”

“Are they… upset?”

“Oh stars, yea. Would you not be?”

I thought of Tuor. “I imagine so.”

“Did my best. Each one fast. Clean. They suffered little or not at all.” A sigh goes through him and he winces. “There is no need to _shout._ ”

I edge closer to him. He rolls towards me and his arm goes around me. Unable to help myself, I relax into the comfort of his warmth. I whisper, “What do they say?”

“Help...” he says so softly I barely catch the word.

“ _You_ want help? _They_ want help?”

 _“They._ They seem… lost,” he murmurs sleepily into my hair. “Some weep. _Where is the way,_ some say… _’tis shut...”_ By now the lengths of our bodies are pressed against each other. I put my arm over him and hug him tightly. “The screamers are the worst. I tell them… sorry… cannot help. No elf knows where lies the path for _atani._ Eru alone can guide them there.”

“It is not your fault.”

“Perhaps… but it is me they blame. And hound.” His voice is matter-of-fact. His face is snuggled against my neck.

My helplessness enrages me. “There is release,” I whisper. “In Aman. The gardens of Estë. You told me once.”

“Not… going,” he mumbles into my neck. “Not going. Stay. Here. With you.”

Without my saying anything, he _knows_. He has always known I fear to sail.

“You must go to Aman. Have you not said we would?”

“Nah.”

“Stubborn bastard. You _must._ I shall not forgive you if you stay.”

“I can live with that.”

I stroke his hair gently. Then curiosity gets the better of me. “These _atani_ … how many are they?”

“Uhh… let me count,” he says drowsily.

A long silence follows. Just as I think he has fallen asleep, he murmurs, “One thousand two hundred and forty-nine.” As I take that in, he adds, “Methinks the rest found the door and passed through.”

He falls asleep soon after. I hear his breathing slow and deepen. I watch moonlight reach white fingers into the _talan_ to dance amid leaf-shadows over his sleeping form. His hair is moonsilver spun into sunlight. His azure eyes are half-open under long dark lashes, shimmering with dreams. I hope they are his dreams of Valinor. From the gentle smile on his lips, I think they are.

I am left in deeper confusion than ever. I have been torn in two from the first days of our joining, always knowing this time would come. To sail. To not sail. His need, his happiness. My need, my fears.

I could weep knowing he is willing to make the sacrifice and stay for love of me. I would be ready to do the same, and sail for love of him.

_But tonight, that dream…_

The revelry below has quietened down. A few groups will have gone into the forest to dance and sing till daylight breaks. Some will have retired to flets. I hear the sound of hooves. Several horses. Crisp voices sharply cutting through the morning air—sober, commanding, questioning.

I gently pull away from his sleeping body, climb out of bed, walk to the edge of the flet, and look down.

I see five cloaked and hooded figures standing next to their horses at the edge of Parth Glórin, and Legolas and several elves hurrying towards them. One pushes back his hood, and I recognize the stern features and pale-gold hair at once. Thranduil.

Thranduil?… _here?_ I am dumbfounded. Then the four guards also push back their hoods and my heart leaps as I recognize one of them.

I glance at Laurefindel as he sleeps soundly on the bed, then quickly pull on a dove-grey dress and descend the ladder. There had been a time when heights terrified me, but no longer… not since Laurefindel coaxed me onto my first flet in Lothlórien, and helped me up and down the ladder three times a day when I was expecting our twins.

By the time I reach the ground, the horses and guards are gone, and I see Legolas leading his father into the woods, away from the glade of the _mellyrn_.

“You send a _letter,_ ” I hear the king saying in a biting voice. “A _letter_. You could not come, and tell me face to face…” As they disappear, I catch only stray words. _“…fool’s quest… duty… folly…” “…Ada… please… understand…”_

The king’s Silvan guard must be with the elves of Ithilien busying themselves with various tasks. There is a _talan_ to be prepared, I imagine, and a hot meal, and the horses to be groomed.

I espy a flash of silver-gold in the distance, and head towards the stables. He stands outside with the horses as they are watered at a long trough, rubbing down the king’s own steed. It is strange to see him in his guard’s uniform of green and brown. He turns to look at me and I see the white scar across his forehead that runs from his hairline to his left eyebrow, and something in his eyes that makes him look older than the eager boy who rode out from Imladris two years back. But then he smiles as sweetly and radiantly as ever. His father’s smile. _“Ammë.”_

I do not rush to embrace him as I long to, mindful of his dignity as a grown _nér_ , and how it had mortified me when my mother thought nothing of ruffling my hair even after I was taller than she. But he is not me. He is his father’s son, and I find myself enveloped in a warm hug as he plants kisses on my cheek.

“ _Ammë, Ammë_ of mine! I thought you were in Minas Tirith. Aryo should be there now.”

“We arrived here six days past, _yonya._ And return to Minas Tirith in three days for the King’s great Yule banquet. Aryo should await us there.”

“Where is _Atto?_ ” Arman asks, as he resumes rubbing down the horse.

“Asleep. How came you by that scar?” I sound reproachful. He does not write as oft as Aryo does, and then his messages are brief and unsatisfying, lacking in detail.

He touches his forehead a little bashfully. “Oh, that. A _nauro._ ”

“A _nauro?_ In Eryn Lasgalen?”

“There were two. I had a little brush with the second.”

I step forward swiftly and take his hands before he can step back and look at the scars on them. They have healed well and will fade, but they still look ugly now. “A little brush, indeed. Where else were you wounded?”

He takes his hands away. “The arms, mostly.” As I continue to stare at him, he sighs and indicates across his body. “Here… and here. And here. Please do not fuss, _Ammë_. All is well now.”

 _Does it run in your father’s blood, this propensity for wrestling with demons?_ I almost want to ask, as he continues rubbing down the horse. But I simply nod. _I am a warrior and wife and mother to warriors. He is right. He is in one piece and there is no cause to fret._

“It is good you are here,” I say, changing the topic. “We can return to Minas Tirith together.”

He does not look at me. “No, _Ammë._ I remain in service to my king.”

 _“Your_ king?”

The grey stallion’s rubdown is complete. At my tone, the king’s steed gives me a warning look ere an elf of Ithilien leads him into the stables. Arman and I are left alone.

“I took an oath of service,” says my son.

“We sail soon. You will need to return to Imladris.”

“I shall, _Ammë._ But not just yet. The king—”

“—loves having you at his beck and call, I am sure.”

“—not so. I am honoured to serve him—”

“Honoured? To serve in that little hole? A hundred caves to Menegroth’s thousand. Thranduil's vainglorious attempt to be Thingol—”

“—Ammë, I _like_ it there. I love the woods, and the people, and I respect and admire my king—”

“—to even call him a _king_ is laughable. How many are left in all his realm? Two thousand at most? Your father was lord over _ten thousand_ in the House of the Golden Flower. Over eleven thousand at the height of its strength, no less than eight thousand at its least. And that was _one house_ in Gondolin!” My own house had numbered nine thousand at its strongest, but we had all given part of our numbers to the House of the Wing when it was formed.

“It is not numbers that matter. _Atar_ was a great lord, but he was a lord in a land that enjoyed mostly peace and prosperity till the Fall came. Âr Thranduil has strengthened and led a people beset by darkness on all sides, warred against the Shadow and preserved his kingdom over three thousand years. He is a great lord—”

“—who has shown little love or gratitude to your father for all your father has done for his realm during the Third Age—”

“—he has been good to me, _Ammë._ ”

“So when will you leave his service?”

There is an awkward silence, then Arman says with some relief. “I can sense Aryo, _Ammë_. Aryo is here!” He turns and moves in the direction of the river and I follow him. Then both of us halt on the dewy grass.

Aryo emerges from the trees on his dark-grey horse Talagor, his golden hair shining through the white morning mist. He exclaims, “ _Ammë!_ And _hanno!_ —you, here as well?”

Both Arman and I are staring and silent. Seated behind Aryo on Talagor, arms wound about his waist, is a raven-haired maiden with sea-grey eyes. She is dressed in tunic, breeches and boots, a bow and quiver on her back, but she is very obviously a maiden. Slender-waisted, long cascading silken hair, delicate features. Rounded ears.

A mortal maiden. _No, no, no… not again,_ my heart screams.

The mortal maiden smiles at me. Estel’s eyes, Arwen’s smile.

“ _Mae de’evennin, Híril_ Lómiel and Arman,” says the _adaneth_.

“Princess Arasael?” I say. _Mae le’ovannen_ sticks in my throat. Arwen and Estel have so many grandchildren now and even great-grandchildren, that I have paid no great attention to each one, but I now recognize this child as the baby among the grandchildren. Eldarion’s youngest. The future king’s favourite child.

 _Yonya, are you insane? How could you?_ I want to grab my firstborn by the shoulders and shake him till he comes to his senses.

Arman must have last seen Eldarion’s youngest when she was fifteen—a gangly colt of a girl who could chatter animatedly about stars and horses, archery and books. She must be twenty-three now, and just reaching full womanhood. Shyness seems to have got her tongue after that greeting. She sits a horse well without saddle, I note irrelevantly. “Arasael, you… you have… _grown,”_ blurts out my secondborn. It is one of the more inane things he could have uttered, given the many mortals he has seen rapidly sprout up over the years. But this is the first one of them to wind her arms around his twin’s waist like that.

Arasael flashes Arwen’s smile at Arman. She is not as lovely as her grandmother, but that smile would melt the Helcaraxë.

“Has she not?” says Aryo with a smile almost as luminous as hers. “I met her on the road to Minas Tirith. Her horse was lamed, and I fortuitously chanced upon her outside an inn, haggling with some rascals attempting to sell her an elderly gelding for thrice its worth. It was she who told me you and _Atto_ were headed to Ithilien, _Ammë_.”

The eyes of the twins meet in silence. I wonder if thoughts fly between their minds or if a wall of silence has risen between them. Arman suddenly looks so young, so lost. Aryo lightly dismounts, lifts the maiden and sets her down ever so gently. The way they look at each other, the way they linger before letting go of each other, tells all.

“Does your father Eldarion know you are here?” I ask the girl.

“I have sent word to him, _Híril_ Lómiel. Once Father knows I am visiting _Hîr_ Legolas, and that Aryo is with me, he will worry not.”

_Just wait till he gets the word I send to him. He will worry plenty..._

We walk back to the stables. She carries herself with an assurance that reminds me of Estel when he was young. But for a high-born maiden her age to wander the lands alone… My mother had done the same, and just look what had happened to her. A cautionary tale if ever there was one. This girl is almost as tall as her grandmother Arwen, smaller and slighter than me or my Amil—no warrior, clearly. Even if she is a dead shot with that bow, I doubt it would avail her much against the bandits and scum that waylay travellers these days. Far worse than a lamed horse and Arinnáro Glorfindelion could have befallen the granddaughter of the King. Not as wise as her name, and far too reckless for my liking. In my mind, I have always imagined my sons settled with damsels in the mould of Itarillë, or Arwen, _not…_

I can hear how Laurefindel would laugh at me. _“Not wayward and wilful like you? or your mother?”_

Several _néri_ and _nissi_ of Ithilien descend upon us, a little tipsy and laughing, to escort the newly arrived guests to _telain_. As is the Silvan custom at Yule, there is much kissing exchanged among the unmarried _edhil_ —not chaste pecks to cheeks but full on the lips. The one _nér_ so inebriated that he approaches me by mistake is repelled with a cuff to the head. I see with a pang the possessiveness with which Aryo fends off any who attempt to kiss his fair _adaneth_.

As Aryo and Arasael exchange a tender look before they part ways at the foot of a mallorn, I see a hurt, bewildered look on Arman’s face. It resembles for a moment the look I saw on Laurefindel’s face on the walls on Gondolin, when he realized I had betrayed the city.

After the _adaneth_ has vanished up the ladder, Aryo turns and looks at his twin. “ _Hanno…_ ”

But another of Thranduil’s _maethyr_ appears and nods at Arman. The azure blue eyes look from his twin to me, then without a word Arman strides away swiftly to do his duty to his new liege lord.

Aryo and I face each other alone. _“Ammë…”_

“Madness, _yonya_. Sheer madness. We sail in a year, perhaps less…”

“I do not wish to leave her behind—”

“ _Yonya,_ she _cannot come.”_

“If Legolas can bring a dwarf—”

“A dwarf who was one of the Nine Walkers. A dwarf whom Lady Galadriel, ere she sailed, promised to seek the grace of the Valar for—”

“She is the grandchild of King Elessar, the great-grandchild of Lord Elrond, bearer of Vilya. She has elven blood—”

I shake my head. “All too little, too weak. Arwen was fully mortal when she wed Estel. And you forget Eldarion. Do you imagine he would let you part him from his treasure forever? And do you imagine a cossetted and cherished child like her could bear the eternal loss of her family and all she knows and loves here? How long have you been in love with her? Five days? Three? And already you _dare_ presume to plan the remainder of both your lives.”

No fool like a boy madly in love. I remember a black-haired _nér_ wild with longing for a golden princess. Unrequited. First cousins. Forbidden. Doomed. None of that had mattered. None of that had lessened the insane, obsessive passion that had endured over a century and destroyed a city. In my son’s grey eyes I see a reflection of the self I once was, and I am filled with dread.

I read it in his grey eyes even before he speaks it. Before he echoes the words his father spoke earlier. “Then I shall not go. I shall stay here. With her.”

 

I return to our _talan_ and try to wake Laurefindel. But he murmurs “Mm-hmm…good…” to everything I say, then slumbers on. I restrain the urge to clout him violently on the head or throw water on him. I lie down facing him and feel the weight of my desolation.

“Damn it, I have not felt so lost for a long time, Flower _._ I have no idea what we will do,” I say softly to the sleeping warrior. “You said you would stay here with me. And now… our sons may be turning their backs on Aman. If they, too, do not wish to sail… and we all stay, should I not be happy? One united family… fading together in the mortal lands till we or Arda are unmade.” I sigh. “ _Muk_. I thought once this was what I wanted. But the truth is… and this is the crazy thing… I wish no longer to linger here. Only now, when all three of you might stay do I see it. I do not want to stay. Aman terrifies me. More than ever. And yet… this land is no longer where we belong. This world is no longer our world. I want Aman. Truly I do. But not those who come with it.”

He is luminous as ever in slumber, and looks serene enough for one haunted by the deaths of thousands of mortals. I curl against him and attempt to sleep. It is futile. After a couple of hours, I dress again and descend from the flet, leaving him still deep in his dreams. He has never been so sodding drunk before. I do not know how long it will be ere he awakens. Galdor had once slept two whole days.

All is quiet in Parth Glórin. The festivities will resume once more in the three hours before midwinter’s early dusk.

I see Legolas looking pale but calm as he talks quietly to Celeborn beneath the _mellyrn_. He does not wish to say much about his talk with his father aside from, “It went exactly as I had expected.”

I discover from him that Thranduil vanished an hour ago, taking Arman and the guards of Eryn Lasgalen into the surrounding forest, but leaving their horses with the herd that grazes peacefully in a field by the stables.

“And… Aryo?”

“He and Aragorn’s grandchild sleep still.” Then he sees the expression on my face, bursts into laughter, and hastens to add, “On separate _telain_ in different _mellyrn_. Worry not! They are not in any danger of getting married… yet.” Even Celeborn is smiling at me. I fail to see anything amusing and take my leave of them rather stiffly.

So much for family reunions.

I leave Parth Glórin far behind, and walk by the dark waters of the Anduin.

Just yesterday the sky had been a tender blue and the sun had shone warm still and bathed the fair, wooded slopes in clear, luminous light. Now, grey clouds gather like a vast army on the march in the skies, the wind comes howling and rushing against the land in big gusts, and the sea-gulls throw themselves with wild cries against it.

I welcome it, and the solitude. The wind buffets me. It is cold and sharp and clears my mind. There is rain in the air. My feet take me through groves of ancient cypress and olives, towards a secluded place Laurefindel and I think of as our own, each time we visit Ithilien.

I need to think. It is Aryo’s ill-advised liaison that is foremost on my mind now.

A message to Estel and Arwen. I should send one. But… would they intervene? Or would their own story cause them to sympathize with the young lovers? Eldarion. I should send a message to Eldarion. He could be here within a day, whisk his favourite child back to Minas Tirith, and lock her up in the Tower of Ecthelion, whilst Laurefindel and I knock some sense into our son.

But then again, maybe not… Eldarion might also not be the ally I hope for. The twins and he had come of age in the same year. As the youngest in the family, the long-awaited heir, the prince had gone through a brief season of rebellion ere he came to manhood, and the twins had journeyed through it with him. When Eldarion snuck out of the Citadel late at night, disguised as a commoner, it was Aryo who had pulled wenches off his lap and saved him from siring bastards, and Arman who had bloodied noses alongside him in tavern brawls on the Second Circle of the city. They had kept his secret from his parents and his subjects, nursed him through hangovers, and cheered him on as he embraced his responsibilities as Crown Prince and courted the granddaughter of Éomer and Lothíriel. The twins had played with Arasael as a baby, for Eru’s sake. Eldarion had even wanted the twins to be her godfathers, only custom dictated it be a mortal and a kinsman of the royal family. He might be delighted by Aryo’s love for his darling, especially if Aryo makes the Reunited Kingdom his home.

A crack of lightning, a roll of thunder. As large drops of rain begin to pelt down, I arrive at our shelter. Nestled against the hillside, surrounding by a grove of mature cypress and olives, is the graceful pavilion of cypress wood we raised a century ago. But to my dismay, someone else is there.

There is a small, round table at the centre of the pavilion, surrounded by four chairs. Seated elegantly on one of the chairs is Thranduil, looking as though he has been there for quite a while. He is staring out across the wide river and the fair plains of Lebennin beyond it, and brooding darkly.

This was a place of special retreat for our family. _Arman,_ I think with a flash of anger and resentment. _How could you bring him here?_

Thranduil eyes me with barely disguised resentment of his own as I run into the shelter, my hair and my blue-grey dress damp with rain. He looks immaculate in the grey and white colours he favours in winter. He wears a long, full-sleeved white tunic embroidered with silver over dove-grey breeches of soft, supple deerskin and darker grey high boots. Small, white jewels glint in a simple circlet upon his brow, and on the matching belt and dagger at his waist. The wind plays with his silvery-blond hair and his fluttering sleeves. A glazed earthernware flagon and cup sit on the table.

 _“_ I am sorry to disturb your solitude, _Taur_.” _And far more sorry that you are disturbing mine._ “Are your guards and my son not here with you?”

“I dismissed them. You have chosen foul weather for a walk, _híril-nín,”_ he says.

 _No fouler than our moods._ “This is a place of fond memories, _Taur_. I have come to see it one last time.”

“Ah, yes. Your son told me that you built this.”

Arman and Aryo were not even of age when we last were here as a family. For a moment, the weakness of nostalgia grips me. I wish they were that young again.

I eye the driving rain. “It looks to last for a while,” I say glumly. A long, loud roll of thunder appears to assent with me.

“Indeed. Pray be seated.”

As I sit across from him, his eyes idly give my body a look-over. Lecher.

“I would offer you wine, _híril-nín,”_ he says, exerting himself to be courteous. “But I have none. And what I have here is rather strong.”

“Strong is good, _Taur_.”

“Are you certain, _híril-nín?”_ he says, sweetly condescending.

“I am.” As he takes a cup from a pack and pours a clear liquid into it, I add, “But I hope it is not that Harondorian horse-piss Legolas has grown fond of.”

A corner of his mouth quirks in wry amusement. “Eru forbid I touch anything resembling horse… piss… as you so charmingly put it. No, a Gondorian _urnen_ , according to _your_ son.” He hands the cup to me. The glaze on the cup is the pale, delicate blue-green of a robin’s egg, swirled with white patterns like feathery clouds.

 _“Galwalas, Âr Thranduil,_ ” I say, raising the cup to him.

“ _Galwalas, Híril Lómiel,”_ he says. And we both toss back our shots.

The pale liquid is deliciously smooth and smoky-sweet, but it burns with such fire down my throat that my eyes water and I almost choke. I lean back in my seat blinking away tears and see him smile at me out of the corner of my eye.

“Are you well, _híril-nín?”_ He sounds amused.

“Excellent, _Taur,_ ” I say huskily when I find my voice again. “Was this my son’s selection?”

“It was. I must say he knows his way around the store of liquor here. A young _ellon_ of discerning taste.”

“At least _one_ of my sons has decent taste in _something,”_ I mutter.

“Ah,” says the king. “My condolences on the impending nuptials.”

“There will be _no_ nuptials if I can help it,” I growl. “My condolences on the impending loss of your sole heir.” I reach for the flagon.

“Is that wise, _híril-nín?_ ” he says sweetly, arching an eyebrow at me as I pour myself a large shot.

“Wiser than having children.” I take another swig of _urnen_. “Let mortals fret themselves silly over posterity, let them angst over leaving the world reminders that they once ever were. I wanted no children in my life. But then, once they arrive, children become… everything.” My head hurts. And my heart.

“ _My_ son wishes to sail and _your_ sons wish to stay. Perhaps an exchange is in order.”

He speaks lightly, flippantly, but I stare at him. “My _sons_ … _stay?_ ” I say sharply. _Bloody gossipy Silvan elves._ Regardless of all that had been said or not said early this morning, it was a shock to hear a third party announce it so matter-of-factly.

“You did not know?”

“My sons spoke unthinkingly. They are young. Naught is confirmed.”

“That was not what Orlin indicated to me this morning.”

I look at the king, my head spinning from downing the _urnen_ too quickly. “What did he say?”

“He spoke not as one who plans to depart. He spoke of his desire to return to Eryn Lasgalen, and make it his home.”

“No. He assured me he would return to Imladris. That he would ask to be released from your service. He must.”

Thranduil’s face is impassive at this. “What makes you think he wants to be released?”

“All his life he has known of our sailing west. He has awaited the moment eagerly for years.”

“Perhaps all that has changed. He appears perfectly happy to be where he is now. He belongs in Eryn Lasgalen as one born there. He loves the woods and the halls.”

_He loves you, you mean. And you would hold on to him, and steal my son from me, you selfish Sindarin bastard._

“The _edhil_ are fading. For us this land ages and grows grey. It is wisdom for us to seek the west.”

“My woods are green and fair, and there is no shadow of fading there,” he says coldly. “My people belong to the woods and I belong to them. So too, does Legolas, but he has forgotten his place and his responsibilities.”

“He has walked with the Ring and sailed on the sea. He cannot look back.”

“Why not? All it takes is a pretty face, apparently, to make one wish to stay.” He smiles wryly. “How many other granddaughters does Aragorn have? Bring them on.”

 _“_ Daughters _,”_ I murmur bitterly, emptying my cup. “I should have had daughters, not sons. Daughters do not think with their cocks.” _My mother should have had a daughter. It would have saved a city and her life._

“You are wrong. My beloved sister may have no cock, but she grieved our father greatly by thinking with… what _ellith_ do have.” He pours more _urnen_ into both our cups. “And if my beloved son had thought with _his_ cock more, he might have wed, given me grandchildren, and have a wife of the Tawarwaith who would compel him to stay. And not be forsaking his duties and sailing off to the ends of the earth with a dwarf.”

“Be happy he cannot marry the dwarf,” I say, emptying my cup. The world around me has begun to sway dizzily.

“Oh, I have wondered at times if he would if he could.”

“Theirs is a great friendship.”

“More fool he. Trust no _naugol_ farther than you can throw him.”

“I like many _naugrim_ more than I like some _edhil_. And far, far more than I like most _edain_.”

“That is ignorant and unwise. The _naugrim_ are all at heart cunning and avaricious. Like the treacherous wretches who struck down Thingol.”

“I think far better of them than the treacherous beasts who turned on the sons of Fëanor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad.”

“Would that the Afterborn had slain them all. Thrice-damned-and-accursed kinslayers.”

“Your king was an ass. He denied the dwarves their rightful payment for their work. And your king and his heir denied the sons of Fëanor what was theirs by right.”

Few things are more sacred to the Iathrim than the memory of Thingol. My vision has blurred, but I can see well enough to tell that Thranduil is glaring at me as balefully as Glaurung might. I doubt any have dared speak to him thus in three millennia without being clapped in his dungeon. Too bad. Thranduil has no dungeon here, and I am a guest of his son.

“The _naugrim_ lusted for the silmaril and sought to _steal_ it from Thingol. And as for _rights_ —tell the thousands of innocents, the children, the defenceless women, that their blood flowed in the sacking of Menegroth for the _rights_ to a bauble. You _dare_ defend the _rights_ of _monsters?”_

On another Yule, six thousand years ago, the kinslayers had descended upon Doriath, and in the thousand caves a young Thranduil had watched as a son of Fëanor slew his mother. In another mood I might have been touched by compassion or empathy that he, like me, has known the horror of witnessing his beloved mother brutally struck down by his own kind. Has known what it is to sit by helplessly as the life that birthed his own ebbs away.

Now, unfortunately, I am as belligerently bent on being disagreeable to him as he is to me.

“The slayings were monstrous. But none of it would have happened but for that monumental moron of a king setting that bauble as a bride-price.”

“Enough!” he snaps. “Thingol was the greatest and wisest of all kings, his realm the most powerful in Beleriand—”

“Nargothrond was larger by far and wealthier. And your king’s power and wisdom resided wholly in his queen, and his greatness between his legs. Becoming the _balan’s_ boy was the best thing that ever happened to him.” My voice, slurring only slightly, is loaded with contempt.

I do not remember rising from my seat, but we are both standing and leaning close to each other. The world spins a little and I hold on to the table to keep it in place. In his glittering eyes, so near my own, I see a dangerous fury and realize he is a heartbeat away from striking me.

“Quite the arrogant, insolent _golodhrin_ _huil_ , aren’t you? Or would that be an _Avarin_ , a _Morbennin_ _huil?_ ” He makes both terms sound equally insulting and barbaric.

I shrug. “It takes one _hû_ to know another.” I smile unpleasantly at him.

“The _huil_ has fangs.”

“You have no idea.”

“Just the sort of lowness one would expect from tainted blood.”

“Why, Eru save me. I have upset the king.”

“I have never met such insolence.”

“Insolence? I have barely begun.”

“You are a vicious, vulgar wench. A mongrel of questionable blood just like your _golodh_ bastard of a husband. Obviously like draws to like.”

We are a breath away from drawing weapons and each other’s blood. My hand itches to move to the hilt of my dagger. Or to smash in his arrogant face.

“Release my son from his oath, then. A mongrel of bad blood. Both sides. It must disgust you. Send him away.”

“Your son is… exceptional. He has caught no taint of you. He is free to choose whether to seek release. And it pleases me that his choice is to remain.” A faint mocking smile appears on his lips. _I have your son,_ says that smile. _And it pleases me to keep him._

I see red and throw all restraint and caution to the winds. I swing my fist at him and he catches hold of my wrists.

“You son of a petty _Dandrin_ lord,” I snarl as I struggle to free myself. “For that is all your father was… seated high on that mincing horse… looking down upon us as though we were chattel… my _Adar_ was ten times the man yours was… had he crushed his pitiful  _Dandrin_ balls you would never even have been a gleam in your _Naneth’s_ eye.”

He has gone pale with rage and shock, the blue eyes narrowing dangerously as they lock on mine. I wince as his grip tightens. “Watch your words or you will pay dearly for them,” he says icily. “You could _never_ have met my father. What absurdities do you utter?”

“Oh, I met him. _Lord_ Oropher. By a pool called Gladuial, long ago and far away.”

“You are drunk and raving. Who do you imagine you are?”

I smile wickedly, as the world tilts and my knees buckle, and I collapse into his arms. I seize hold of the neck of his tunic and pull him closer as I fall. Our faces are inches apart.

“I am _nuthrachon,_ the accursed,” I say silkily as my eyes hold his. “Thief of the black star-blade, doom of mother and father, treachery that stands smiling by a king’s throne… I am the hand and eyes of Morgoth Bauglir, the deaths of a hundred thousand, destroyer of the stone that sings…”

As I relish the shock and consternation in Thranduil’s face, from the olive grove behind me suddenly rings out a strong, clear voice in a tone that has chilled the blood of errant or ill-disciplined warriors at Imladris for millennia. “ _WHAT in Eru’s name??_ ”

I am suddenly wrenched from Thranduil’s grasp, and through a haze as the world spins, I see violet eyes blazing with white fire frowning into my own, and a halo of bright gold hair.

“Throttle that prick for me,” I breathe in Quenya, before all goes black.

 

 

_Glossary (alphabetical order)_

Arasael (S) – noble + wise _[methinks maybe it should be lenited to “Arahael”, but that’s one of her Dúnedain male ancestors, and it just sounds more feminine this way.]_

Balan (S) - “vala/power”, and there seems to be no Sindarin word for “maia”

Belain (S) - plural of "balan"

Dandrin (S) – a “Dand” = “back-turner” = the Noldor’s term for those who began the journey to Aman but turned aside from it. Fairly insulting, I think.

Galwalas (S) – "Galu _[good fortune/blessings]_  + a _[and] +_ glass _[joy]_ "   _[I initially came up with "glass a galu"  as a toast - I'm grateful dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com_ _devised the much more elegant & economical "galwalas"]_

Hû/huil (S) – dog/bitch

Mae de'evennin - Well met (said to more than one person)

Moratani (Q) – Móri = dark, atani = men – darkened races of men

Nauro (Q) - werewolf

Nuthrachon (S) – man under a curse _[thanks to dreamingfifi again for the translation]_

Rhúnedain (S) – men of the east – Easterlings

The stone that sings – literal translation of Gondolin

 

_This chapter gave me so much trouble that in the end I trashed the original completely. I do not know if I will rethink it and take it down later and rewrite some bits… but I’m fed-up with it for now so I’m just posting it as is, and welcoming, as always, all feedback._

_[15 June 2016 postscript - Thanks to all for the kind feedback despite my misgivings about this chapter. Because no one has lambasted it, I will not rewrite it for now! Sorry, I've been hiding and painting rather than writing... here is a Maeglin illustration for all you lovely people. Next chapter will be done by end of the month I hope... so much for my wanting to rush this fic!]_

_ _

 


	33. Crossroads

Glorfindel had been awakened around noon by a clap of thunder and a headache so horrendous it felt as though a _Mûmakil_ was stomping on his skull. The _talan_ rocked as rain and wind lashed it, and Maeglin was nowhere to be seen.

Not sensing anything amiss, he had been in a tolerably good mood despite the headache. He swung his long legs off the bed and landed in a heap on the floor.

_“Elven milksop…” “Weak as a day-old kitten.”_

At least, that was all he really understood the voices were saying. The rest was probably far more caustic and more profane, but it was thankfully incomprehensible. He ignored them as he always did nowadays, crawled over to the chamberpot, and threw up into it. After cleaning his mouth with a paste of clay and wintergreen, he took a deep drink from a basin that had been filled by rainwater flowing down from the top of the tree… Then felt nauseous from drinking too quickly and too much, and had to return to the chamberpot. After cleaning his mouth a second time, he sipped at the water more slowly and judiciously, then dunked his head into the basin. These ablutions done, and the rain having subsided to a drizzle, the warrior pulled on a fresh tunic, combed through his damp hair, and felt human enough to face the world. And to search for Maeglin.

Walking through a light drizzle of rain, he headed towards the river. His legs were much steadier now, though his knees and ankles went weak at odd moments. Just stepping over a tree-root could end in his crumpling onto the wet ground.

_“Wobbly as a newborn foal…” “And with legs as long and spindly too…”_

There had been a time he had tried to talk to them, in the variant of Easterling he knew, the smattering of Balchoth and Variag dialects he had, and every variant of Westron known in Ennor. They either were ignoring him or could not hear him, though they could see him well enough. He had had no choice but to accustom himself to their ever-present babble of commentary on his daily life.

Back on his feet, Glorfindel was troubled that he had not the foggiest memory of how he had made his way back to the flet last night. No memory, in fact, of anything beyond Legolas refilling his cup for the seventh time. He had drunk far more than he usually did, there was no doubt of that. How much more, he was uncertain. He would surely not have been crazy enough to challenge the son of Thranduil to a drinking contest… or had he?

The voices began to murmur a little more loudly in their jumble of strange languages. He wished he did not understand any Easterling speech. It might have made it easier to ignore his shadowy cloud of companions.

He was grateful that whatever black abyss or void the spirits of slain orcs and balrogs and trolls and gaurhoth were sucked into, not one had lingered to disturb him. Glorfindel often wondered if the sons of Fëanor had been haunted after the kinslayings – or whether all slain elven souls obediently flew to the bosom of Mandos and did not linger to torment their slayers. Even Maeglin’s soul had done so, had it not? Had any of them been haunted by the spirits of Easterlings from the Nirnaeth Arnoediad? Glorfindel might be one of only a cursed few _edhil_ with the power to sense and hear the spirit realm with such clarity, in the same way he could walk in dreams, and frighten off Nazgûl, and mend another’s _fëa._ Legolas and Elrond’s sons had seemed wholly unbothered, both after slaughtering humans in the War of the Ring, and after the Rhúnaer War. The one time Glorfindel had tentatively broached the subject, during a protracted siege of an enemy fortress, his friends had looked at him so oddly by the light of the campfire that he had decided he would never mention it to anyone again.

The first years at Rhúnaer and after had been far more terrible than this. The tormented souls had raged and hissed and cursed, howling profanities in their various tongues or weeping bitterly. Some days now, there were not many of them, just a few hundred. Most of them had subsided into moans of despair, or a grumbling commentary on Glorfindel’s daily life. Glorfindel’s tall frame had grown leaner over the last century, because of the harsh voices muttering longingly over his shoulder each time he dined.

_“Food, oh, for food...”_

_“A strong cup of bloodwine, with cloves, and anise…”_

_“Call this food? Damned milksop elves...”_

_“Ay! Roast yak. Nothing beats roast yak...”_

_“I’d sell my mother for a taste of yak tongue again, charred just so, and bloody…”_

_“Silence, you barbaric lot! Now, a curd of pig’s blood, or a jellied goat’s eye, or an aspic with boar’s trotters… that’s what I miss…”_

Torn between pity and disgust, there were days Glorfindel would be completely put off his food.

Winters were always worse, especially at Yule. As the dark nights lengthened, whether in snowy Imladris or mild Ithilien, the slain seemed to congregate more thickly in the shadows, and to grow more restive and tormented. And venomous. Though they were never as vicious now as in the first days, and were at times almost gruffly familiar towards their slayer, a century of their heckling and wailing had worn Glorfindel down. Ever so gradually.

And last night, the warm haze of Harondorian firewater had wrapped round him, comforting as a soft, downy cloak… and the voices of the slain mortals had seemed to grow more muffled and less strident with each cup he swallowed…

Between his headache and the voices of the slain, he did not hear the two elves ahead of him with his usually keen ears as he approached the pavilion. The slain ones were the first, in fact, to note what was going on as the warrior massaged a throbbing temple with one hand.

_“Oho! A stallion has got pretty boy’s mare!”_

_“Or his mare has got a stallion!”_

Glorfindel, startled, raised his head, and blinked at the sight before him. Then all hell broke loose.

He was barely aware of setting Maeglin into a chair after wrenching her out of Thranduil’s arms. Nor of spinning about with a lightning-fast left hook to the King of Eryn Lasgalen’s jaw. But the next thing Glorfindel knew, he was staring at the Woodland King sprawled on the wet ground outside the pavilion, and Thranduil, lying stunned on his back, was wondering if his right jaw had been broken.

_“Good hit.” “Remember who the prick is!” “It was still a good hit.”_

That wondrous first surge of adrenalin had worn off, though. As Glorfindel stepped out of the pavilion, his knees buckled, and he found himself flat on his front across his half-brother. Taking advantage of this, he then straddled the king and seized hold of Thranduil’s neck in a vise-like grip.

 _“Fight! Fight! Kill! Kill!”_ the slain ones were chanting.

 “What did you do to her?” snarled Glorfindel, a darkness in both his face and his voice that no one, including Thranduil, would have ever have thought possible in the warrior of Valinor. Neither had the king ever heard the warrior snarl before.

“Nothing,” Thranduil said through the pain of his jaw. Not broken. But likely to hurt for a whole day like he had been hit by a rock giant, no matter how speedy elven healing was.

“You were assaulting my wife!”

“Rather, _she_ was assaulting _me._ ”

“A fine story. I know how you have been looking at her, you lecher. So now, you _get her_ _drunk?_ And _take advantage of her?”_

“She needed no assistance in getting herself drunk, I assure you,” Thranduil managed to say as the hands around his throat tightened. “Stop being ridiculous. Unhand me and get off me, you bastard!”

As a sharp, stabbing pain shot through Glorfindel’s skull, he winced and suddenly loosened his hold on Thranduil’s neck. Seeing his opportunity, Thranduil grabbed hold of the warrior and flipped him over his head, sending him sailing into a large, thick clump of bushes at the bottom of a rocky slope behind them. Rolling gracefully back onto his feet, the king watched with some bemusement as the greatest warrior in Ennor floundered on his back in the shrubs with an uncharacteristic lack of grace and his legs in the air. Glorfindel himself was frankly astonished when his body failed to obey him. He had no near-mortal wounds to his _hröa_ , so why was it refusing to get out of the thicket?

The king frowned as he examined some mud stains on the skirts of his tunic and guessed that his back was probably far worse. What a day to have worn white. Then he watched as the warrior’s flailing entangled him deeper and deeper in the springy, slender branches of the shrubbery. Thranduil felt his tender jaw carefully. “You almost broke it.”

“You would have deserved it if I had,” growled Glorfindel blackly. “I saw what happened—she _hardly drinks_ —I saw her _struggle with you!”_

“She drank enough to addle a dozen Dalesmen. I did warn her.” Thranduil looked over his shoulder thoughtfully back at the pavilion, where Maeglin lay slumped unconscious in a chair, and he recalled her strange words. Then he looked back down at Glorfindel, and chuckled at the sight of the long, bright golden hair tangled in the bushes, and the look of perplexity on the warrior’s face. A wicked glint came to his eyes. “I must say that after a few shots of _urnen_ , she was… astonishing. A complete revelation.” He walked down the slope. “Who would have imagined so much fire beneath all that icy reserve? So much passion?" The king smiled mockingly at the balrog slayer as he went close to the bushes but stayed out of Glorfindel’s reach. “I could not have kept her hands off me if I tried. Oh, and her mouth. What could I say about the sweetness of her mouth—”

_“You spawn of Sauron!!”_

Several twigs snapped angrily, and the king found himself seized by the neck of his tunic and pulled into the clump of bushes. As a branch almost poked his eye out, Thranduil cursed himself for his misjudgement.

“You turd of a troll!!” Glorfindel cried out angrily as he tried once again to throttle Thranduil, “I could hang you from your ankles over Orodruin and roast you slowly, and the world would call it just. You _kissed my wife?!”_

“Did I say that?” Thranduil managed to gasp, as he tried to pry the warrior’s fingers from his neck.

Glorfindel paused and stared blankly at him, frowning through the hammering in his skull. “You said—”

“—I never _said_ I kissed her.”

“—so… you did not?”

“—unlike _you,_ falsest of friends, who kissed _my_ lady love on Cerin Amroth.”

“Cerin Amroth?” Glorfindel’s brow furrowed in bewilderment, then his eyes widened. “You mean… Amroth’s feast at Lórien?”

 _Tuiad Lyth_ , Third Age, year 38. A golden-haired Noldorin lord and a black-haired Silvan maiden had pressed against the shadowed bole of a mallorn tree, lips locked in a deeply passionate kiss as they shimmered in the darkness. The King of Eryn Galen, the guest of King Amroth, had watched from a _talan_ in another tree, his face dark with rage and jealousy.

“You idiot!” exclaimed Glorfindel. “You _saw_ that? You held that against me all these years, and said _nothing?”_

“What was there to say? I took you into my confidence, you rancid bastard, and you betrayed me.”

Glorfindel looked utterly confused. “When? When did I receive this confidence? I had _no idea_ then that you loved her!”

“Liar. On the ride south to Barad-dûr along the Anduin. I told you that if I fell in battle, I had one regret.”

“ _That_ was _it?”_ Glorfindel painfully concentrated as he recalled the conversation three millennia past. “You said, ‘I regret Lothuial Laerosiel will hate me till the Dagor Dagorath.’ And I said, ‘Fear not. ’Tis not for you to meet Mandos. You will have time anon to make your peace.’ And you said, ‘But should aught befall me, I would wish her to have this ring.’ And I said, ‘I tell you, it will not come to that. But should aught befall you, I shall see it done.’ Where was the confession of love?”

“The _ring!_ Why else would I want to give her the ring, if not for love?”

“How was I to know that?”

“It was my _mother’s ring!”_

“I thought it but a token of peace, or friendship. You know, as from Finrod to Barahir. You did not utter the word _love_ even once!”

“Why else would I call it my _one_ _regret,_ you numbskull, as I rode to fight in a great and dreadful war?”

“I was thinking myself that I regretted not being nicer to Erestor. I thought I should have been nice and given him my emerald hairpin that he admired so much. Why could you not have been more direct? ‘I love Lothuial Laerosiel and I never got to tell her. Should I die, please tell her and give her this ring as a token of my love.’ Why speak in such oblique hints?”

“I had no idea what a dense-headed dimwit you were!” Thranduil shifted as a twig pressed against his kidney. “Let go of me, you dunce!”

Glorfindel released Thranduil’s neck. “Verily I had no clue you loved her! You hid it so well, Lothuial loved you but thought it hopeless. There were murmurs that _Tuiad Lyth_ you would marry Mithrellas of Lothlórien, and Lothuial was distraught. She got hopelessly drunk, came to me in tears seeking comfort—and then grew muddled and started to kiss me. And called your name, I swear. I had not the heart to push her away, so... that was how it happened.. _.”_

Thranduil stared at Glorfindel. “She… loved me _then?_ ”

“Why did you lead me to believe you kissed Lómiel? Do you have a death wish? I could have _killed_ you!”

“Your kind are famous for that,” said Thranduil bitterly, extricating himself with cat-like grace from the bushes and glaring at the _golodh_ still trapped there.

“I am _no kinslayer!_ You provoked me—you—” Still hopelessly entangled in the shrubbery, the warrior was now gazing at Thranduil without rancour, only confusion and hurt. “Why? Why do you _hate_ me so much? Were we not once _gwedyr?_ Did I not give service to your realm as best as I could over the years? Apart from kissing Lothuial, how— _how_ did I _ever_ transgress against you?”

“Why else do I hate you?” said Thranduil as he pulled leaves and bits of twig out of his long, silken tresses. “Where shall we begin? Let us start with the time you took my young son and disappeared without a word into the Withered Heath for five days and brought him home with a broken leg.”

Glorfindel flushed. “An honest mistake for which I have always accepted blame. Legolas and I each thought the other had left word for you. I tended and set the leg and it healed perfectly. I apologize once again for it.”

“Then there were the many other times you nearly got Legolas killed, captured by _yrch_ and trolls, mauled by wargs, or eaten by spiders.”

“My presence for all those instances was incidental. You know as well as I that he did all that even when I was not around.”

“Indeed? He seemed especially accident prone in your company.”

“Uhh… you mean the time he was swept a league downriver?”

“And the time he had his gut sliced open fighting _yrch_. I have lost count of the times you have almost gotten my only son and heir killed—and made him love and adore you for it through it all,” said Thranduil scathingly.

“All those mishaps were only in his first _În!_ He was young and reckless, and too eager to prove himself. I have brought him home with nary a nick on him ever since.”

“You have ever been the worst of influences on him. This latest madness is also your work. Since he was young, you have filled his head with fantastical stories of distant shores where the sands are pearl and there is no winter—”

“They are true tales of our far home. Yet it was the War of the Ring that led him to the sea. Not I.”

“—you lure him with your tales of riding with Araw Tauron, and of woods greater and fairer than Lasgalen—”

“—which they are indeed—”

“—and _you_ gave him the shipbuilding plans, and the sea charts, and the maps of the sky paths beyond the Bent World—”

“—that is unfair! He asked them of Círdan, and I was only the courier!”

“—but your greatest transgression, your unforgivable transgression—would you like to know what it is?” In an icy, biting voice, the Woodland King said: “That you were ever begotten.”

In the long silence that followed, they held each other’s eyes.

Then, a look almost of relief crossed the warrior’s face. “So… you know.”

“What do I know?” challenged Thranduil in a quiet, steely voice. “Say it.”

“About… about our _Naneth_ ,” said Glorfindel quietly, the name coming awkwardly off his tongue.

Thranduil’s eyes glittered ferociously, and his mouth was hard. “You do not deserve to call her such!”

“Our _Emel,_ then. Rílel daughter of Gilornel. She may have begat me out of wedlock, but her blood runs in my veins as much as yours!”

“ _Your_ veins are filthy with the _golodh_ that defiled her,” snapped Thranduil contemptuously.

“You will _not_ speak thus of my noble _Adar!”_ cried Glorfindel irately, fire kindling in his eyes as he, at last, with a desperate burst of strength and a massive snapping of twigs, managed to tumble himself out of the thicket onto his knees, breathing raggedly. But his long hair remained snagged in the bushes and he winced as the branches pulled at his scalp.

“Noble?” sneered Thranduil, staying well out of reach. “Noble? That piece of _golodhrin_ filth?”

“Thranduil,” said a calm, commanding voice. “For the love of your _Naneth,_ stop taunting your _Hanar_ and do not insult the _Adar_ of your _Hanar._ ”

The brothers turned to see Rílel’s guardian standing beneath the ancient trees of the grove, immaculate in a long silver-grey robe. He was coolly taking in the sight of his great-nephews in their muddied and torn clothing, and the stray leaves and twigs caught in their bright hair. The right side of Thranduil’s face was red and swelling, and Glorfindel had several scratches on his face and hands.

“For the love of Lady Galadriel, you mean.” The Woodland King glared coldly at Celeborn. “All these years. You kept it hidden.”

“Yes,” said the silver-haired lord, walking towards Rílel’s two sons. His hair flowed like moonlight down his back, and his ageless face was smooth and expressionless. “It was your _Naneth’s_ secret I carried,” he said to Thranduil. “She never wished you to know. Or your _Adar,_ of course. But it is time.”

“And what of the ravisher?” said Thranduil sharply. “ _Emel_ was your ward, your sister-daughter. How could you protect and shield the vermin? How could you let him go unpunished? For the sake of the Lady Galadriel?”

Celeborn looked at his Sindarin nephew with unruffled calm. “It was not as you think.” He went over to Glorfindel, who was struggling to untangle his famed tresses from the twigs. Standing by the younger elf and reaching into the dense thicket, the erstwhile Lord of Lothlórien began with nimble fingers to tease the bright locks free.

“Your _Naneth_ was young,” said Celeborn to both of them. “She fancied herself in love.”

Thranduil stood very still. He had turned pale.

“It was but the giddy romantic dream of a young maid,” Celeborn continued serenely, “and she came in time to see it as such.”

“And… the _golodh_ took advantage of her vulnerability? And seduced and dishonoured her?” asked Thranduil, the fury in his voice edged with desperation.

Celeborn looked at Thranduil for a while, his piercing silver eyes glittering. Then he said gently, “Quite the reverse, I am afraid. Perhaps we should leave it at that.”

Thranduil was speechless, and for the first time in millennia he looked lost.

Continuing to free the entangled golden hair, Celeborn added, “As her guardian, the fault was mine for not offering my ward better guidance than I did. I little understood what measures an ardent young heart desperate for love might resort to. Until it was too late. Your _Naneth_ had certain arts and spells none of us were aware of, Thranduil. She used them hoping she might beguile a prince into loving her. Then she repented, and used them to hide all trace of her misdeed, and start anew. You _Adar_ never guessed, never knew, when he bedded her. And Glorfindel’s own _Adar_ was, in all this, ignorant and innocent. Although,” he added to Glorfindel with a gentle smile, “I think it likely that the Lady Galadriel would have spoken to Finrod in Valinor, by now.” He had pulled free the last golden lock of hair. He gently ruffled Glorfindel’s hair as though he was an elfling, probably thinking as he did so of another, much beloved, with hair yet brighter.

Glorfindel sat on the ground, weak and drained by his struggles, his hair hopelessly mussed, and looked at his brother. His heart ached for Thranduil, who was looking as though everything he had ever believed in was being shaken and shattered. The son of Finrod averted his eyes from his proud brother’s pain.

“Thranduil,” said Celeborn kindly. “Your _Naneth_ wronged the _Adar_ of your _Hanar_ and deceived your _Adar_ , and she suffered dearly for it, whereas both men were spared much pain in all their unknowing. And in time, she came to love your _Adar_. Most deeply. She redeemed herself by being all that a devoted wife and mother could be. And you, Thranduil, you she loved better than she loved her own life. Do not think harshly of her.”

Thranduil hardly heard the ancient Sinda. He was thinking of only one thing at the moment.

_Finrod._

She had died with the _golodh’s_ name on her lips.

 

A league away, on a hill outside Parth Glórin, a young golden-haired elf and a dark-haired mortal girl reached the summit, hand in hand. They were laughing from the climb and the run, Arasael flushed and breathless, and her dark hair wild and tousled by the wind. They turned, and surveyed the wooded hills of fair Ithilien, which lay stretched before them bathed in clear luminous light. The scene was painted in the magical shades of love, and seemed to belong to them and them alone.

Aryo gazed at his princess lovingly. Arasael, princess of Gondor, was fair enough among her people, but there were highly un-elven imperfections in her face that made Aryo adore it all the more: the mouth too wide, but generous and laughing; the chin a little too sharp; the lightest sprinkling of sun-freckles on her small, pert nose; tiny crinkles at the corners of her lively eyes when she laughed. And the sun had kissed her skin darker than any elf’s over long hours of riding and archery.

As her eyes looked west where the sun was sinking lower in the sky, a sadness fleeted across Arasael’s face. She turned towards Aryo, and saw how his bright flowing hair and the flawless symmetry of his face caught the light of the sun and gave it back. She remembered how mesmerized by the bright beauty of the elven twins she had been as a small child. The elven twins’ visits to Gondor every four to five years had meant boating on the Anduin, trips to Ithilien, camping in the wilds beyond the Pelennor, all done with or without the company of her father and brothers. And over the years, her awe of their elven beauty had receded and they had become just… Aryo and Arman. Friends and familiars. She had been more boy than girl, more ranger’s child than princess—her hair always refusing to stay in its braids, her dresses always snagging on bushes and brambles and getting torn. She was the despair of her mother and the darling of her father. Aryo had never treated her like a girl. Nor had he spared her the sharp edge of his tongue whenever she did something particularly dangerous. “Stars of Varda! If your father does not beat some sense into you, you infuriating child, I swear I’ll do it myself!” He had taught her elven history and lore, and on his last visit, when she was fifteen, they had spoken long hours into the night of the fading of magic and the old races.

Then, four nights ago, as they camped north of Emyn Arnen and talked after eating a rabbit stew, the familiar had become new and strange once more. She had gazed at Aryo, his face lit by the shimmer of his own golden hair and the red glow of the campfire embers, and suddenly been overwhelmed by the entirety of all he was and had been to her over the years. And she had known that this elf was the man she wanted to be with for the rest of her life. And her year-long infatuation with dashing Galadil, prince of Dol Amroth, was exposed as a shallow fancy. Had she only a short while ago been dizzy with joy at the thought that the match was arranged, and dreamed of their betrothal? The only real and true thing in the world was the elf sitting next to her. Who was now frowning strangely at her.

Aryo had been quite earnestly explaining to her his latest efforts to re-create the _palantiri,_ but his voice had trailed off, and he was staring at her in silence. He looked almost stricken.

She had cleared her throat. “And so, what did the dwarves have to say about that?”

“What?” Aryo had said, like a dazed man just awakened from a dream.

They had been sitting almost shoulder to shoulder then. When their hands had reached out and clasped, it felt both wondrous and natural. And after a moment, they had leaned closer to each other, and kissed.

After an unknown length of time spent kissing, Aryo had murmured, “This is insane. Your father…”

“Hush, I know,” she had replied. “I do not care.” And silenced him with another kiss.

Stupid words spoken by starlight, she realized now, as they stood in sunlight on the hill in Ithilien. Already as she gazed westwards, she felt the future looming. Felt all the weight of the fading of the old races, and saw a white ship carrying him away from her over the edge of the Bent World. She tried to blot it out of her mind.

_I do not want to think of the future. I just want to be young, and foolish, and live this moment. Live fully this joy so new, so fleeting. It may be all we shall ever have._

But he was looking gravely at her, as though he had read her mind. And taking her hands, he said, “I will not take ship west with my people, my love. I shall stay in Ennor, and we shall be together always.”

She felt her knees go weak, and herself begin to tremble. Such conflicting emotions of leaping joy and hope and wrenching heartache swept over her that she was bewildered and lost. It was the heartache that won.

 _“Always,”_ she repeated. “But—it would not—it could not be _always._ You would watch me grow old… and white-haired… and then…” It was not her beautiful, still ageless grandmother Arwen she saw in her mind, but her father’s nursemaid, who had just passed away – a tiny, snowy-haired, toothless creature with face and hands wrinkled like a dried prune.

“Do not say it!” Aryo said sharply, as though not speaking of the dread reaper of the _edain_ would deny its power and existence. All the blood had drained from his face. “It is many years away. Why think of it now?”

“It is eighty years more only, a hundred perhaps. What is that but the life of a mayfly to an immortal? And all the beauty and joy of Aman, all the magic and lore and light and the powers of your people—what would you give it up for?” Her voice broke at the thought of him alone. Already she saw him facing the long, dark years in mortal lands, the last of his kind, and the way to the west closed forever.

His face took on a stubbornness she had seen before and never thought she would love so well… as she loved each nuance of emotion and expression that crossed his features.

Aryo had witnessed old age and mortality before. At Imladris, he had sat by the deathbeds of childhood playmates, and witnessed their last breaths. He had watched lines of age and disease and care form on their faces and etch themselves deeper over decades. And agonizing though the thought of it happening to Arasael was, he knew with the ardent lover’s absolute certainty that he wanted to be the one holding her in his arms as she breathed her last. The anguish at the thought of the eternal separation that would follow was so great, that he felt pain constrict his own breath.

“For the happiness of eight or eighty years with you, I would be willing to give up all of Aman and much more. I would treasure every day and every hour Eru gives us,” he said. “I have never known Aman… I could barely miss a place I do not know.”

“But… Arman? And your father, and mother? And the household of Imladris? Will you not miss them? And what would it be like, once my father is gone… and I as well?”

Arman. The thought of Arman was like a knife through his _fëa_ , but he could not think of that now. “All mortals lose kin, do they not? I may not be able to stay the hand of time, but I will find comfort, as mortals do, in what is left to me. We will have children, my love.” His face glowed with joy at the thought. “And I would watch over them, and our descendants. I would see you and I and our love live on in them, through all the ages of men till the Second Music.”

 _Or you would fade from the grief of loneliness and pain, numbed at last from loss upon loss. You would fade from weariness and regret, from the heavy weight of the long years, and your heart and spirit would sicken at the decay of this mortal realm,_ thought the girl, remembering the dark prophetic words she had read in the ancient elven texts, which had till a few days ago meant no more to her than words on crumbling parchment.

“I cannot let you do this,” she said, shaking her head, her grey eyes full of pain. “I cannot. I cannot.” And the tears welled in her eyes and spilled down her face as her heart broke.

 

Whispers carried through the elven settlement, swift as the wind, among those who were awake, for many slept till the sunset when the feasting would begin once more.

Legolas swiftly climbed one mallorn, and as he arrived at one _talan_ , he heard several gasps of surprise, and saw five pairs of eyes glittering at him from Arman’s bed.

Legolas smiled wryly. “Nínim, Dílloth, Aníriel, and Nemirwen—I must have a word with Orlin.”

“Oh, _hîr-nin_ , do join us!” “You should rest, to feast and dance all night!”

“No, my blossoms,” said the Lord of the Ithilien Elves.

Arman and the _ellith_ rose from the bed. The young elf straightened his clothes.

 “Legolas,” said Arman. “I—”

“I know, I know. 'Nothing happened',” said Legolas. “But your brother... you should go to him now.”

Arman went racing through the woods and hills towards the river, arriving at the jetty in time to see the small ship disappearing upriver, towed along the shoreline by horses, and Aryo standing forlornly alone, staring after it. Arman paused, a lump in his throat as he felt his twin’s pain lance his own heart. Then he sped on light, silent feet to his twin’s side.

 

As Maeglin stirred to consciousness, the wild cries of seabirds were harsh in her ears and caused her to wince. Her throat was dry, so very dry. Soft strands of silken hair blew across her face and she lifted her hand to brush them away.

“Finally, _melmenya._ How do you feel?” said a well-loved voice above her.

Her eyes had shut when she passed out. She opened them now, and saw the carved wooden beams of a roof, and his face looking tiredly down at her. She was lying with her head on his lap, his glorious bright hair, rather dishevelled, falling about her face. He was seated on the wooden floor and leaning his back against one of the supporting pillars of the pavilion. There were blue shadows under his eyes, and he was pale, and there were thin red scratches on his cheeks and forehead. But he was still more beautiful at his worst than most elves would be in all their immortal lives.

“What happened? You look like _muk_ ,” she croaked from her parched throat.

“You’re not looking your best either.” He gave her a wan, weak smile. “I _feel_ like _muk_ too.”

“Such language… What depraved company have you been keeping?”

“Oh, the worst sort. A foul-mouthed brat who should know better than to touch _urnen._ ”

She tried to sit up, winced and fell back onto his lap. It was so comfortable and warm there, she decided to remain there for now. “Thranduil—”

“Left. With Celeborn.”

“Celeborn? What happened?”

“I shall tell you only after you tell me what happened between the two of you. You were guzzling _urnen_ like a fish, according to him.”

“I… am going to be sick.”

And he helped her out of the pavilion, and while she bent over the roots of a venerable olive tree, he held back her waterfall of black hair for her because that is what husbands are for. Then they slowly made their way down to the river, and she drank some of it and freshened up. They sat leaning against each other on the banks of the Anduin, choosing some rocks which were less damp than the surrounding grasses and vegetation. They gazed westwards at the sun sinking over the distant plains of Lebennin, across the wide river.

She told him briefly of her exchange of words with Thranduil, and her failed attempt to smash the Woodland King’s face.

“Well, I punched his jaw for you.” He gave a very small chuckle because it hurt to laugh. “He led me to believe that you threw yourself at him and kissed him. I almost choked him to death for it.”

She drew away from him at that, with a frigid glare. “I see. You believed him. You believed that I cast myself at him like a wanton.”

His smile died and he blanched. “I never said that.”

“You as much as did. You thought me capable of being faithless.”

He sighed hugely and looked pained. “Of course not, _melimë_. The _urnen_ —”

“Once a traitor, always a traitor?” Her voice dripped with icy bitterness.

“No! I merely did not question what Thranduil said—”

“Of course. _Thranduil_ does not lie. Whereas you have always known that I, ally of Moringotto, pawn of Sauron, am a traitor and deceiver of blackest tar.”

“ _Melmenya!”_

“You know how much I loathe that man!”

“Well, you loathed _me_ up to the moment you coupled with me, did you not?” The words escaped his lips before he could think.

A dreadful silence fell. Her eyes narrowed and her face grew grim. “So… that is how it is. You believe all it takes is a few swigs of _urnen_ , and this lowlife _Moriquendë_ skank would throw herself at the nearest man, regardless she is wed?”

“I never said that!” he sputtered. “But… is that not how it happened with us?”

“Two centuries of marriage and two sons, and you think all my love boils down to is a swig too many of _urnen!”_

“No! I mean, I… I sometimes wondered… over the years… you kept us in secrecy for six decades... you seemed so uncertain about us. I loved you for nine years before we wed… but for you… it was too sudden. You never had a proper chance to choose.” He looked tortured for a moment. “We have been so happy… But I wondered if you ever regretted it… if you never saw this as something that could last for all time.”

“After all these years and two children – how could you possibly doubt me?”

“As Imrazôr never doubted Mithrellas? You have thought of leaving me. Do not deny it.”

Her heart lurched to realize he had sensed those treacherous thoughts. “I have no such thoughts now. Truly.”

“But you did before. How were you even able to _think_ it? Will you ever think it _again?_ What does that say of your commitment to me?”

She found herself on the defensive. “They were the most fleeting of thoughts only…”

His eyes were wounded. “Not that fleeting. You were mulling them the year the boys came of age. And again, the year when we first saw silver in Estel’s hair. I wondered at times, truly, if I might awaken one day like Imrazôr and find you gone.”

“All right. I had thoughts. But never intentions. Never. No plans to carry it out.”

“But why did you even think them? Were you so unhappy?”

Her mind was a confused turmoil of thoughts, and the lingering effects of the urnen were not helping. “You had… withdrawn from me. You needed so much more than I could give you. And as Aman loomed… I thought how much better it would be for everyone, for you, and for our sons, if I was not there.” She looked grim. “Across Alatairë are all those who love you, and love me not. Think of facing Itarillë—”

“I have thought of it for the past hundred and fifty years. Itarillë loves me, and I _know_ she will love you when she sees how good for each other we are—”

“Ecthelion. Rauco. Duilin. All the other Lords—”

“I could not care less what they think—”

“ _I_ care!” she snapped. “Can you imagine it? _‘Meet my wife. Yes, we were all Lords together before.’”_

“If they do not accept you, they do not accept me!”

“You could give up all your friendships? Your beloved house?”

“In case you have not noticed, I have done without those friendships and without all the Golden Flowers for six and a half thousand years now. I am sure all of them have been doing just fine without me too.”

“And what of our sons? Do we wait for one of the Gondolindrim to walk up to them in a street in Eldamar, spit in their faces, and tell them their mother was Maeglin Lómion?”

“We should tell them now. They are old enough, surely.”

“No!” Maeglin said sharply. “They _cannot_ know. They must _never_ know. We cannot do that to them, and destroy their lives.”

“You trust so little in their love for you?”

“I am not cruel enough to hurt them that way. If I never go to Aman, they need never know. For Eru’s sake, Lauro, you cannot tell them that their mother is the greatest villain ever born of the Quendi, the orc-blooded monster and coward and lecher who sold his city and his people to their greatest enemy.”

He was appalled. “Who told you about the orc-blood rumour? Did you read it?”

“Our sons told me.”

“It was an absurd, a disgusting fiction generated among the refugees at the Havens of Sirion, and Quendingoldo recorded it in his histories. It is beneath contempt or even notice.”

“Oh, our sons noticed. And so will everyone we meet in Aman.”

He glowered and clenched his teeth. “We shall dismantle all these falsehoods, and destroy them with the truth. And our sons shall learn the true story of the prince of Gondolin from us. There will be little shame in it.”

“There will be when they have to face the condemnation and judgement of Eldamar.”

“Forget Aman, then. We will tell the boys nothing, and I will stay here with you.”

“No. I… I _want_ the three of you to go. I am so serious about your going to Aman that I would drug you, haul you onto Círdan’s ship and chain you to your bunk if need be.”

 “Love, I would like to see you try. Angainor would not hold me down if it keeps me from you,” declared the elf who two hours’ past had not been able to get out of a bush.

“The sea calls you. Your _fëa_ yearns towards Aman… you _need_ to go. You need the healing and wholeness that Estë can give you. You need to be free of these _atani_ that have been plaguing you.”

His eyes widened. “H-how did you know?”

“Do you remember nothing? You told all in your drunken stupor last night.”

He groaned. “I shouldn’t have. You shouldn’t worry about me.”

“I have been worried about you for a century. You _must_ go to Aman. What if you stay, and one day, you awaken with regret, hating me, and there are no more ships west?”

“I will not regret it.”

“We are _fading!_ With each century, we lose a little more of our powers. Unless I craft a new Vilya, we will weaken until we may become no more in strength than the _atani_ are, but yet immortal.”

“Or become more _fëa_ than _hröa_. There is none who can say.”

“I do not think I could have crafted Vilya or any of the elven rings at the peak of my powers. Now, I could not hope to even try.”

“No matter what happens, I will stay with you. If we fade, we fade together. Whether we sail or do not sail, let us work it out. Together. Please—” His eyes begged her. “Don’t attempt to run. I am not getting on any ship without you. I will hunt you down across Ennor if I have to, as your father hunted down your mother.”

She looked at him, and smiled rather sardonically. “Will you bring a poisoned javelin?”

“For Thranduil. If I find him anywhere near you.”

“You big silly. You know I detest him.”

“Stop saying that. Need I keep reminding you that you ended up in bed with the last _nér_ you detested?”

They laughed at that, the kind of laughter just beyond which tears lurk, and kissed gently and affectionately.

“All right,” she said. “I won’t leave you.”

He smiled wanly. “Ever?” he said softly.

“Ever.”

“One and bound for always?”

“Always.”

“Say it again.”

She sighed. “I am yours. For always. Please do not make a big production of it.”

As their heads leaned in for another kiss, a seagull swooped past with a raucous cry. They both winced.

 “Kill the damned birds,” she said.

“It is a lesson to us. Never will I drink that much again.”

“The last time I ever drank this much was one night in my father’s forge. I hit him and bloodied his nose. He had me by the throat. At one point he flung me against his anvil and almost broke my back. I pushed him against the wall and shouted obscenities at him. If _Ammë_ and his retainers had not come in and pulled us apart, one of us would have slain kin that night.”

He gently pushed back strands of black hair that were blowing across her face.

“From that day, there were no more nights drinking together. No more visits to Nogrod. I kept out of the smithy as long as he was there. I began to dream of the world beyond that forest, and dream of freedom from shadows. I made a rule never to drink more than five goblets of wine at one sitting after that night, and never would I touch _urnen_ again. I never wanted to lose control again. Never wanted to be like him.”

“You will never be.”

“But I was. I hated the bastard. Hated him for all of him I saw in me. The more I ran from his shadows, the more I found them within.”

“No longer. You are free of them now.” And taking her face in his hands, he finally took that second kiss. But the shadow she saw in his own eyes mocked his words. And she tried not to think of the dead Lords of Gondolin.

“And you,” she said quietly, when their lips separated. “Was it so bad last night that you had to get yourself drunk?”

He looked sheepish. “I did not _mean_ to…”

She looked cross. “All these years. You lied to me. You pretended everything was well.”

“The _atani_ could not _hurt_ me in any way. And there was nothing you could do. I did not wish you to worry.”

“You shut me out,” she said reproachfully. There were tears pricking her eyes, and she struggled to hold them back.

Without a word, he reached out and wiped away one tear at the corner of her eye with his thumb. The sun was setting, and the stars were lighting in the sky one by one.

 _“Forgive me,”_ said his mind to hers. And he kissed her once again, deeply and tenderly. But as her hand went to the fastenings at the waist of his breeches, he shook his head, “Sorry, _melimë_. I have the most splitting headache. I don’t think I could.”

She caught herself and retied his laces. “Sorry. It was almost a reflex action. My head feels abominable too.”

With a smile, he got to his feet and reached down to pull her up. Then they saw their sons, walking slowly and forlornly along the banks of the Anduin under the stars and drifts of windswept clouds. Aryo’s bright head was bowed, staring at the ground just before his feet as he walked. Arman saw them and cried out, “ _Atto! Ammë!”_

 _“Yonyat?_ When did you arrive?” called Glorfindel, as the parents moved towards their sons.

Aryo looked oddly at his mother, pale-faced but dry-eyed. “ _Atar_ does not know?”

Maeglin shook her head, whilst Glorfindel looked bewildered. “Does not know _what?”_

“No matter,” said Aryo in a flat voice. “It is over. She told me she would never allow me to forgo Aman and remain in Ennor for her sake…”

 _“Who?”_ asked Glorfindel, almost bursting. “Who is _she?_ What is _over?_ What is this about remaining in Ennor?”

Then, at the stricken look on his firstborn’s face, a look Glorfindel had seen before on the faces of warriors who had received a mortal hurt, the warrior fell silent. He and Maeglin stepped forward, and together with Arman, they folded their tall son tightly in the overlapping circles of their arms, and let him weep.

 

As sounds of laughter and song from the celebrations at Parth Glórin travelled up to their flet, Glorfindel and Maeglin, after a good, hot wash at the bath house, were preparing for an early night.

After letting Aryo pour out his heart and his woes for an hour or so, it had seemed a better idea to encourage him to take part in the feasting, to be surrounded by sweet music and merry companions than to mope and brood, and Legolas and Arman had promised solemnly that between them both, they would not let the heartbroken youngster drink himself silly.

But as the hero and traitor of Gondolin lay snuggled against each other, sleep eluded them.

“Are the ‘voices’ bothering you, _vennoya?”_

“No more than usual, _vesseya.”_

“There is something I never told you. About the night we bonded.”

His heart sank. “And that is?”

“The _urnen_ helped, but was not the cause _._ I loved you long before.”

He raised himself on an elbow and stared down at her. “You did?”

“I did.”

“Since when? Our sword lessons in the basement?”

“Before that.”

He was both stupefied and ecstatic. “Then… when?”

She shrugged with a show of indifference. “Sometime during the years you made such a nuisance of yourself at the smithy. I got used to you being around.”

“Nonsense. You had over a century to get used to my ‘being around’ in Gondolin and it did naught but irk you.”

“The mystery of love. I have no idea why or exactly when, but I do know that loved you before I married you.” She paused. “Ardently.”

His glow was so bright, the sun seemed to be rising in the _talan._  “Why did you never tell me? This changes everything. It’s wonderful!”

“What changes? We are married no less and no more than before.”

“You proud, cruel prince. You led me to believe you _loathed_ me!”

“Of course I did. I have no idea when I stopped, though.”

“It would seem we have more secrets than I imagined, after being married for two centuries. Have you other confessions to make?”

“That summer in Gondolin, when you and Ecthelion went swimming in the mountain lake and your breeches disappeared, that was me.”

“Oh, _that_ I guessed long ago!” He laughed merrily and smothered her with a kiss.

She smirked as she surfaced from his kiss. “How is your headache now?”

“What headache? I feel marvellous!”

And somewhere in the hours between then and the rising of the sun, there was a lot of love, and laughter, and no sleep.

And by the time the first light of dawn stole into the _talan,_ Maeglin and Glorfindel had a reason to be rapturously happy, and had both reached, unanimously, a decision that they would sail to Aman, and build a home in Oromë’s forest.

 

Two nights later, it became known that Thranduil and his guard would leave for Eryn Lasgalen the following day.

As the last festivities for Yule were held, Glorfindel went out in search of his brother. He found the king at last, strolling through a moonlit glade in shimmering silver-grey robes, with a herd of deer and their stag at his side. Thranduil and the deer turned their heads as the balrog slayer appeared on the edge of the glade, clad all in white. Then the deer and stag carried on grazing. Thranduil’s jaw had long healed, and so had the superficial scratches Glorfindel incurred during his tussle with the thicket. But other wounds lingered.

“I have nothing to say to you,” said Thranduil coldly to his half-brother.

“Please. You leave tomorrow. We may never meet again. I just… want to talk.”

“What is there to talk about?”

“You are my _hanar_. Can we not part as the _mellyn_ we once were?”

“No one can turn back time.”

“Let us move forward, then. Let us at least make our peace.”

“The only peace there could be between us would be that of silence.”

“I would hope rather for the peace of understanding. Why hate me for something I had no power over? Is my very existence such an affront to you?”

Thranduil gritted his teeth and looked away from his bastard brother.

“Our _Naneth_ loved you and your _Adar_ ,” Glorfindel said. “You are true-born, love-born, able to name father and mother all your life. I never even knew who my parents were, for almost seven millennia. I have no ill will towards you. Why should it be _you_ who hates _me?_ ” His azure eyes were baffled.

“Why?” Thranduil said bitterly, swinging around on the warrior, and the deer startled slightly and skittered away a few paces. “Do you really want to hear it, spoken plainly, you simpleton? You were conceived by her love for my _Adar’_ s rival. I was at her side as she died, and her last thought and her last breath were for _him._ And all I ever believed about her, all I ever thought I knew about her… it was all a lie. And my _Adar_ knew it, the moment he laid eyes on you. You killed him long before Dagorlad. You killed him the day you walked into the throne room of Eryn Galen.”

Glorfindel was silent for a long while, then he said awkwardly, “ _Naethen._ I am sorry about _Naneth,_ and about your _Adar._ I am sorry for how I came to be. But thorn in your side that I may be, yet I will always be your _hanar._ And pain in the neck that you can be, yet I will always see you as my _mellon_. When I go to Aman, I will seek our _Naneth_ and your _Adar,_ should they already have left the Halls of Mandos. I will seek to make peace with them. Have you naught to say to them? You may send messages by me, if you will not by Legolas. I will not fail you in this, however else I may have grieved you.”

As he left, Glorfindel paused and turned back to say one last thing.

“And should you decide to sail, _hanar-nín_ , if you will not get on a ship with a _naugol_ … know that you are always welcome to board one with this _golodh.”_

And Thranduil stroked the neck of the stag that walked at his side, and was lost deep in thought.

 

There was more to come that night, Thranduil discovered. Reluctant to return to his _talan_ at Parth Glórin, he lingered in the wooded hills, and let the beauty of the moonlit forest soothe him.

He sensed her before he saw her in the shadows—dressed in a flowing blue dress of so dark a hue, it was the blue sheen on a raven’s wing, almost black. The contrast with the alabaster whiteness of her skin in the moonlight was almost too stark. She had a glow to her that was almost ethereal, and looked lovelier than he had ever seen her.

But remembering their last meeting and the words they had exchanged, the king’s mouth hardened. Maeglin held up her hand in a silencing gesture before he could speak. A very queenly gesture. Or a princely one.

“Three things would I speak, Âr Thranduil. Then I shall leave you in peace.”

“Speak.”

“First and foremost, I crave forgiveness that I insulted your father.”

“And the second?” he said frostily.

“I regret nothing I said of Thingol. I stand by my judgement as true.”

“And the third?” he said even more icily.

“You are far better a king than ever Thingol was. An able king.”

In the silence that followed, he inclined his head to regard her piercing, smouldering eyes of midnight—unnerving black eyes—with a fairly penetrating gaze of his own. “Did your husband send you here to say that?”

She lifted her chin at him a little defiantly. “I am no man’s lackey, to be sent. I acted of my own will.” She curtseyed. “ _No vaer i dhû,_ Âr Thranduil.”

As she turned to leave, however, he spoke.

“Of course. You were his peer, if I recall the history rightly. And his prince.”

She froze, then slowly turned and looked at him with raised eyebrows. “I have no idea what you mean, _Taur_.”

“It means I have solved your riddle.”

She gave him a wide-eyed innocent gaze. “A riddle? You mean… my wild words, my drunken drivel? I was, as you rightly observed, raving.” She bit her lower lip daintily, then delicately pushed a lock of hair behind her ear with a slender and graceful hand. “I do hope, Âr Thranduil, that you will forgive—and forget—the nonsensical babblings of a silly _elleth_ who cannot hold her drink.” And she smiled at him, sweet as honey. A smile that was almost simpering, almost a travesty of femininity.

A knowing smile touched Thranduil’s lips. “Of course… _híril-nín._ All is… forgiven.”

Their eyes met in understanding. She swept him a deep curtsey. _“Le hannon, Taur.”_

Then, with a small, mocking smile, she disappeared back into the shadows.

 

Legolas ran a loving hand along the hull of his great ship. It was finished. White as a pearl, graceful as a swan, stronger than Ossë’s wrath, and—he knew—it would be swift as the wind. But amid his pride and his joy in his ship, Legolas’ heart was heavy, and Arman saw the sorrow in the _Aranion’_ s azure eyes, and the grimness in the set of his fair mouth.

“Legolas, please,” begged Arman. “Go to him. Talk to him!”

Legolas sighed, and turned to look sadly at his pale-haired companion. “Arman, do you think I have not tried? It never seems to end well when I do. I love my _Adar_. I want nothing better than for him to sail with me… you have no idea how many times I have sought to persuade him. I have a feeling, _mellon vuin_ , that you would enjoy more favour and success with him than I.”

Not long after, the stars could still be seen in the sky through the _mellyrn_ branches as Arman made his way up to the king’s _talan._ Legolas had given his father the largest and most luxuriously furnished flet in the settlement, though the king had spent little time there.

“I brought you some breakfast, Âr Thranduil. Legolas prepared the tray with his own hands.”

The king nodded at him, already dressed for travel. Arman made to carry down the travel packs, but Thranduil stopped him. “Later. Sit with me a while.”

Arman sat on a couch across from the king as he ate at the table.

Thranduil had had no food, the previous day, and he quickly put away the fresh pastries and delicacies that the kitchen had prepared and Legolas had chosen. All his _Adar’_ s favourite morsels.

“You have served me well, young one,” said the king to Arman. “But I do now release you from your oath and from my service.”

Arman’s eyes widened. “ _Aran-nín_ , I planned to return to Eryn Lasgalen—”

“There is not a soul here who does not know of what has befallen your twin. I would not keep you from him, and he would not wish to return to the Woodland Realm. So, I shall free you of the dilemma of choosing between your duty and your heart. You may go.”

Arman was silent.

Thranduil raised an eyebrow slightly. “I was expecting a little gratitude, or enthusiasm.”

“I am. Most grateful, _Aran._ Yes, it is true. I need, I wish to be with Ornor my twin… but if we part now, Âr Thranduil, it is likely I shall not see you again ere we sail to Aman.”

“And that would grieve you?”

“Yes.” Arman went to the king and knelt before him. “ _Aran vuin,_ you have been as a second father to me. You are a great king, and I have been honoured to serve you. I ask permission to speak freely, out of the love I bear you.”

“Speak.”

“ _Aran vuin…_ do you miss Rîn Lothuial greatly?”

After what felt like an eternity, Thranduil replied, “Of course.”

“It could be no less than she misses you. Have you not thought she might be awaiting you, across the sea?”

Thranduil pushed away the tray of food, and drank slowly from his goblet. “She knows my duty to our people and shares my love for Eryn Lasgalen. She would not be awaiting me.”

“Yours is a great love, _Aran vuin_ —hers for you, and yours for her. I have no doubt that she would be yearning for you, whether she believes you will come to her or no. And so would your _Adar_ and your _Emel_ …”

As the king’s face darkened, Arman realized to his confusion that he had erred, and quickly added, “And of course, Legolas shall be there. Your son loves you dearly, _Aran._ He has just spoken to me of how his heart’s longing is for you to sail with him.”

“Did Legolas put you up to this, then?” said Thranduil softly, leaning back in his chair. “Could he not come himself to speak to me?”

Arman flushed. “Sometimes it is hardest to speak to those we love most deeply and whose wrath we fear. He knows your objection to his plans… it is hard for him to voice his wishes.”

Thranduil smiled wryly. “It is true. Those who imagine you are identical to Legolas fail to see that he is truly my son in some ways, as you are your father’s. It was not thus, before the War of the Rings… but now… we clash against each other like iron against iron.”

“ _Aran vuin_ , you have freed me of my duty that I may follow my heart. All those you love most dearly will soon be across the sea. Will you not free yourself that you may follow your own heart, and join them there?”

Thranduil looked at Arman for a while, frowning. “Rise and be seated,” he commanded.

Arman rose from his knees and sat himself in the nearest chair. The king was still gazing at him, but there was neither anger nor offense in his face at the youngster’s audacity. Arman saw in Thranduil’s eyes the sadness and weight of thousands of years.

“You are so very, very young, infant,” said the king at last. “At your age, your heart and its desires and dictates are all. It is no light thing to be a king. You belong first to your people and your realm, and last of all to yourself. You do not follow your heart’s desires, but the needs of your people. It grieves me that Legolas has forgotten this.”

“I love Eryn Lasgalen and its people, Âr Thranduil. When I am there, it is easy to forget that this is the age of fading, and that our race must pass away. It grieves me to think that it may succumb to the ravages of time in ages to come... I would that you and your people go to Aman, before that befalls you.”

Thranduil shook his head. “My people will not sail. They chose not to cross the great Hithaeglir in the time of the stars, and nothing will make them leave now for the great unknown. They will stay, come what may. And if it means fading, so be it. And I shall stay for their sake, and hold at bay the ravages of time and men for as long as I may. And whatever their fate will be, I will share it. The shepherd does not abandon his sheep to wolves. I shall not desert them for something as selfish as my own heart.”

At this, tears began to spill down Arman’s cheeks, but he continued, almost despairingly. “There are forests of matchless beauty in Aman, my _Adar_ says. In them, perhaps, now live many of thousands of your people who have fallen across the ages. Imagine how they would rejoice to have their king with them, to be reunited with those they have left here in Ennor.”

“My _Adar_ would be there as their king. It is not in the land of the _belain_ I am needed. It is here, as time and the realms of men encroach upon my people and their woods.”

Arman had spent the last arrow in his quiver, and they had all fallen short of their mark. He sat empty of words, and tears trickled down his cheeks. Thranduil gazed gently at him. “There are things in life more important than happiness.”

“It is hard to accept anything could be more important than love.”

“The needs of the many over the needs of the few. Or the one. I can barely hope that you could understand, infant. But Legolas does, though he has chosen otherwise.”

“I think I do understand,” choked Arman. “And that is why I sorrow.”

They sat for a while in silence, until pale fingers of morning light crept through the mallorn branches and stole into the _talan_.

“Go, now,” said the king. “Fare you well, Orlin Glorfindelion. _Cuio vae._ Live well.”

And Arman knew that later, when the king descended the _mallorn_ , it would be Legolas’ moment of farewell with his Adar. The king and his son would walk away beneath the trees, and speak words only for each other’s ears. And when at last they returned, Arman and all of the elves in Ithilien would be assembled there. The young elf would stand to one side with his own family, and contain his sadness, and watch as the king and his son said their last, formal, public words to each other. Then the king and his guard would mount their horses, and ride away. Thranduil must be bracing himself now, for that moment. And so was Legolas, somewhere below them in the glade.

Arman dried his tears on his sleeve, and rose slowly and reluctantly to his feet, his heart heavy as lead. Taking up the decanter, he refilled the king’s goblet for the last time.

“Fare you well, Thranduil, Aran Eryn Lasgalen. _Cuio vae._ ” He knelt and kissed the king’s hand, then quickly crossed the flet to take up the travel packs. At the top of the ladder, he turned and blurted out, “We leave Imladris for Mithlond the day after the Autumn Feast.”

Then he vanished down the ladder.

Thranduil held the goblet of wine, not drinking it, and gazed out into the west.

 

Legolas, Celeborn, and Glorfindel and his family journeyed to Minas Tirith and joined the household of Imladris there. The elves all knew it was their last time in the City of Kings, but no one said it. King Elessar looked still hale, Queen Arwen was as fair as ever, and they feasted, and laughed, and sang, and rode out on hunts, and spoke fondly of days past. The King called Maeglin _Naugwen_ , and sparred with Glorfindel for old times’ sake.

Arasael was away in Dol Amroth. No one mentioned her impending betrothal to Prince Galadil, only that she was visiting distant kin. Aryo’s golden glow had dimmed, and he spoke little, and never once said her name, and Eldarion was gentle with his old friend.

At the end of spring, Legolas returned to Ithilien with Gimli, and the household of Imladris made the long journey home. Elladan and Elrohir would have stayed longer, but it was time to prepare for their voyage west.

They arrived back in Imladris in time for Tarnin Austa. And Maeglin had another dream.

_She races through Gondolin with Glorfindel, trying to find the way of escape out of the city. They are separated. She stumbles across Duilin and watches as fiery bolts strike him in rapid succession. His eyes hold hers as flames lick his hair and cloak. He falls, ablaze, from the high battlements over the great Gate._

_She comes upon Rog, swinging his mighty mace at the orcs and balrogs ringing him around. A ferocious blast of firedrake flame reduces him to ashes._

_Then Penlod, slowly sliding down a wall pierced with an orcish spear, the light fading from his silver-blue eyes as they stare at her accusingly._

_Then Ecthelion. As he and Gothmog fall into his fountain, he turns steely and grim eyes upon her. Waters that flow dark red close over him._

_As the ship pulls into the harbour at Aman, they wait on the landing for her. Tall. Silent. Armour battle-battered and bloody. The light of their dead eyes cold, condemning…_

Then the dream disappeared, as Glorfindel rolled over to hold her, and comforted her with his light and his warm kisses.

But something disturbed her. And for some reason, she did not wish to ask Glorfindel.

Maeglin walked among the half-empty shelves of the library, where Erestor was sifting through books, choosing which to pack for the voyage to Aman. He looked up as she scanned the remaining books in the history section.

“Yes, my dear. How may I assist?”

At her reply, the councillor gazed at her strangely with his emerald eyes. He took a book from the middle of a pile on the floor and passed it to her wordlessly.

Maeglin went to a window seat, curled herself in a corner, and opened _The Fall of Gondolin_. She found the place, and read the description of the ends of the four Lords who died in her dreams.

She was shaking before she finished, yet she could not set it down.

She looked up finally to see Erestor standing by the window seat, his green eyes glittering with compassion. He took the open book away from her trembling hands, glanced at the pages she had been reading, and sat down at the window as well, shaking his head.

“You look like you have seen a ghost,” he said, for she was pale and ashen. “Or several.”

She mastered herself enough to say in a flat voice, “It is an affecting read.”

“Why must you read this now?” he said, waving the open book at her. “Have you not carried all these deaths enough without putting yourself through the graphic descriptions?”

She stared at the councillor in shock. His parents were Gondolindrim, of the House of the Fountain. His family had been betrayed by her.

Erestor explained gently, “Lord Elrond told us before he sailed.”

“‘Us’?”

“The Lords Elladan and Elrohir. Myself. Lindir. Camaen. Thalanes. While you and Glorfindel were having your babies in Lothlórien. Once he told us, everything we had wondered about you over the years made perfect sense.” His tone was pleasant and matter-of-fact. “He advised us not to let on we know. But I could not see you torment yourself like this today and keep silent.” He quirked an eyebrow at her. “It cannot be easy for you to sail.” He patted her hand sympathetically. “And understandably so.” Erestor gave one of his rare smiles, an oddly reassuring and paternal smile. “But if it helps any, my dear girl, you will not be going there alone.”

Then he closed the book, stood up, went back to the other end of the library, and slotted the book back into the middle of its pile.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

_Tuiad Lyth (S) – Birth (Sprouting) of Flowers  – the Sindarin version of Nost-na-Lothion [translation by dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com]_

_Hanar (S) – brother_

_Rîn (S) - queen_

_[Terms of address used for Thranduil as king were from dreamingfifi too!]_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note:   
> I decided against the canon that there are elven fëar who refuse the summons to Mandos and “linger in Middle-earth… and wander houseless in the world, unwilling to leave it and unable to inhabit it, haunting trees or springs or hidden places that they once knew” (Morgoth’s Ring). If this were the case, I don’t think Maeglin, or Eöl, or the sons of Fëanor, or Fëanor himself would have answered the summons of Mandos. (I mean, don’t you think FËANOR of all elves would have refused the summons if he had the option???) And of course, if I abided by canon on this, I would then have no story here. But I love that Quantumphysica bases her “A Borrowed Voice” on these wayward, unhoused fëar lingering in Ennor, and I hope to see more of that fic written soon.


	34. Last Days at Imladris

A single bell tolls over the city as the people file down Rath Dínen, the Silent Street, to pay their last respects to King Elessar Telcontar who now lies at rest with his ancestors in the Tombs of the Kings.

In the procession, a white-haired dwarf with bad knees slowly hobbles, leaning on the arm of a tall, willowy elf at his side. The elf’s silken hair appears startlingly pale, almost silver, against his black robe of mourning.

As the door of the mausoleum is sealed shut where lies the descendant of Elendil, the dwarf and elf weep alongside the many descendants of the Elfstone.

The Queen stands pale and tearless, supported by Eldarion her son and her daughters. The elven-light in her silver-grey eyes is quenched.

On the last day of summer, the morn after the coronation of the new king, a city awakens to find the Queen Mother gone. Taking leave of her children, she has ridden out alone, leaving behind even her most devoted ladies-in-waiting. Her final command—that none follow her.

A graceful white elven ship is already sailing from the mouth of Anduin the Great and swiftly journeying northwards along the coastline. At Mithlond, it is amply provisioned by the Ancient Mariner of the Teleri, and with a song and a prayer, the vessel launches out on the easterly winds into the great unknown.

Hundreds of leagues east of Mithlond, in a deep-cleft valley, a small group of elves mourn the loss of their beloved Arwen and a boy named Estel, and make journey preparations of their own.

 

“I have _already_ thrown out an _enormous_ number of books,” protested Erestor, his emerald eyes flashing indignantly. “All that you see here is of tremendous value. Priceless, irreplaceable works. Far greater a treasure than that arsenal _you_ insist on bringing with you! Of what use is all that lethal weaponry in a land of peace?”

“I am leaving over four-fifths of my weapons for the _edain_ ,” replied Glorfindel, looking a little pained, for the sacrifice had cost him dear. A small garrison of a two hundred and fifty Reunited Kingdom soldiers would arrive from Annúminas in ten days to take over the valley, including the armaments left by the warriors of Imladris and the Last Alliance. Glorfindel had held on only to a few pieces closest to his heart. Apart from his twin swords from Aulë, there were five swords, three bows, two braces of knives. Then there was a helmet and shield from Celebrimbor, and a spear that was the twin of Aiglos given him by Gil-galad. Among his cherished collection of vambraces were an ancient, shabby pair from Galadriel that had belonged once to his father Finrod. All the rest of his personal armoury he had relinquished with much regret, and deposited in the weapons store rooms.

The library books had long been packed into boxes and loaded into two wagons—mostly whatever Idhren had left of the archives of Imladris, histories of the Second and Third Ages. Glorfindel and Erestor stood now in the advisor’s study, and the golden lord was gazing with a frown at the piles of books Erestor was still packing.

“Ersetor, be reasonable. All I have is two bags of keepsakes.”

“Two very large bags.”

“Compared to your mountains of books? Elladan and Elrohir say you have to at least _halve_ this. What you have in this room alone is more than what my entire family has packed, and our horses thrown in. By all the Valar, do you want to sink the ship?”

Erestor looked desperate. “Most of these books are one-of-a-kind works of immeasurable worth and incomparable beauty. Works of art in themselves. Here—look at this one by Henthael of Nargothrond. Look at the fine gold leaf here, and the colours, bright as jewels. The inks as rich and vibrant today as they were six millennia past. You can feel the wind blowing through the forest, hear the song of the birds.”

Looking at the wondrously illustrated page that depicted the fair woodlands by the river Narog, Glorfindel could not but be moved by its beauty. He turned to another pile and picked up a weighty tome from the top. “ _Memoirs of a scribe in the court of Gil-galad_. Neither a work of art, nor a venerable history. Why in Eä would you bring this one?”

“ _That_ one vividly describes life in the court of Forlond—”

Glorfindel gave a snort of derision as he flipped through the book. “If you want to hear about it, look the man up in Valinor, for Eru’s sake. Oh, Raenildor. I remember him, a quiet, pleasant chap. Invite him for tea once we land in Avallónë, and talk about old times. Then you won’t need his _book!”_

“His writing is a delight, the insights and reflections most acute and perspicacious—”

“Oh, come on. You and I were both at the court of Gil-galad! If anyone wants acute and perspicacious insights, why should they not ask _us?”_ jested Glorfindel with a dazzling grin.

“ _You?_ Perspicacious?” scoffed Erestor.

From the doorway came the soft, mellifluous tones of the erstwhile Lord of Lothlórien. “Erestor, might I borrow your copy of _The Age of Starlight?_ ” So calm and gentle was his voice, that no apology for his interruption felt needed. As the day for departure drew nigh, amid all the disorder of the household—and the occasional frayed tempers and moments of high emotion—Celeborn moved as though shielded in mithril. He sipped his tea and wine, read books, strolled through the valley by day and by night, and said no word about journeying west.

“Certainly, Lord Celeborn.” Erestor walked over to a nearby shelf, and picked up a book bound in worn, maroon leather.

“ _Le hannon,_ Erestor _._ ” And the silver lord glided silently out of the study.

 “What a pity he will not sail,” said Erestor, turning back to his books. “He is a formidable repository of knowledge and lore in himself. And I have much enjoyed his conversation and insights these past few decades.”

“Not sail?” Glorfindel raised his eyebrows. “I strongly believe that he _will_ take ship with us.”

“Oh? Has he taken you into his confidence? He has certainly said no word of sailing to me, or his grandsons. He evinces no interest whatsoever in any discussions of Aman that take place in the parlour. _And_ he has been sending letters to Thranduil of late. You mark my words; he plans to betake himself to Eryn Lasgalen.”

“There is one reason he will sail to Aman,” said Glorfindel simply. “Galadriel.”

Erestor rolled his eyes a little. “Celeborn and Galadriel have been wed over six thousand years. As it is with most of the Eldar, the fires of desire burn no longer in them. They join the ranks of many others who, after a joyous term of connubial life find happiness on separate paths. My own parents, for instance— _Naneth_ sailed west after the War of Wrath, and _Adar_ remained till after the Last Alliance. Fondly though he spoke of her, he never _pined_ for her. When at last he sailed, ’twas for sorrow at the fall of Gil-galad.”

Glorfindel had lived longer than Erestor and knew this was true for many couples. It certainly seemed to be so for great-grandfather Finwë and his two wives. So serene and unruffled had Celeborn’s countenance been throughout the Fourth Age that Erestor’s words seemed wholly reasonable. All the same, the silver lord’s nephew insisted stubbornly, “Yet I believe he will sail.”

“Fine!” said Erestor, green eyes glinting. “If he does not, I get back the brooch I lost in our last wager.”

“Done! If he sails, I dunk you in the fountain.” He twirled Raenildor’s book on one finger. “But our Lords Elladan and Elrohir still say you must needs halve the number of books you are bringing. Your books will have one wagon—no more.”

Erestor sighed and muttered, “Oh, very well. The _Memoirs_ go.” And he waved vaguely towards the discards pile by the door.

“I shall take these to the library, then.” Glorfindel picked up the stack by the door, balancing Raenildor’s book atop it. “Cheer up,” he said kindly to the despondent advisor. “At least _some_ among the Arnorians are literate enough to appreciate the treasures you are bequeathing to them.” And with a smile, Glorfindel swept out of the room bearing Erestor’s discards.

Erestor looked at his remaining books mournfully. He took a few of them and carried them over to the spot Glorfindel had just cleared. Before he set them down, he hesitated. He flipped through one, and skimmed through a passage.

“No, no… not this one,” the advisor muttered to himself. He flipped through another, and sighed. “Ah, fair Elhaeleth, how sweet your verses… no, no, not this one either…”

He resolutely set the other three books on the floor without opening them, then carried the other two back to the teetering piles of books bound for Aman.

 

Stepping out of the house, Glorfindel breathed in the pure air of the valley. It was the first week of Ivanneth. Two weeks remained to their departure.

Two sets of twins were riding home from the hunt, having killed a brace of partridges, some quail, and a rabbit between them. With a wave, they rode past toward the stables and the kitchen.

Glorfindel walked through the apple orchard to the smithy, where Lindir was serenading Maeglin as she sat on the bench. The bard saluted him as he approached, and Glorfindel returned the salute merrily. Maeglin turned her head and gave her love a glowing smile. She rose to her feet slowly, her hand on the swelling curve of her belly. Except for a brief period in her fourth month when she had driven Glorfindel to near despair with a craving for Gondorian seafood, it had been a peaceful pregnancy. As she entered her ninth month, she shimmered with a luminous beauty almost as radiant as Glorfindel’s.

“She likes the _Lay of Leithian_ , this one,” Maeglin told her love ruefully. “She will have none of the merry children’s songs Lindir sings.”

“She likes them when _I_ sing them,” said the father, laying his hand gently on his wife’s belly. “Do you not, _gwinig?”_

And the infant made in Ithilien kicked an enthusiastic assent.

“Oh, you are cruel, _gwinig!_ ” cried Lindir in mock-hurt. “I sang you my best _Little Lamb Lullaby_ and _May Blossoms Fair_ , truly I did!”

“She knows her mind,” said Maeglin. “She favours Lindir for epic lays, and _Adar_ for children’s ditties.” She stretched and winced a little. “ _Ai!_ Leg cramps. I have sat too long, and must walk. Shall we, my lords?”

So the three of them walked out towards the waterfalls, and were soon joined by the _peredhel_ twins. It was the turn of the golden-haired twins to cook dinner that night.

“Dinner is going be late,” said Elladan as he fell in step with them.

The eyes of the twins were touched still with sorrow. When they had all sensed the passing of King Elessar, they would have broken their word to their sister and ridden to her side in Gondor—save that Glorfindel stopped them.

“She made me vow not to let you go,” said the warrior grimly to his two Lords. “It is the last thing she asked of me, and if I have to lock you both in the basement till it is time to sail, I shall do it.”

Then Glorfindel had held the _peredhel_ twins in his arms as their father would have, as he had when they were young, and wept together with them as they grieved.

Above them, the sky was a magical sea of crimson and molten gold. The elves gazed down upon the gorge of the Bruinen and the village along the riverbank to the south. Two weeks more, and they would bid farewell forever to the valley.

Over the last hundred years, the _edain_ village in Rivendell had grown further. Its population was kept in check by periodic waves of sickness and pestilence, by migration out to the burgeoning cities of Arnor in the north, and by the usual mortal afflictions of age and childbirth mortality. Even with the power of Vilya gone, millennia of habitation by the Quendi had left its mark on the valley. The harvests here were more plentiful, the sun, moon and stars shone a little brighter, the flowers bloomed more abundantly, the foliage of the trees was greener and more luxuriant. But there was no doubt that the valley belonged to the _edhil_ no longer, a hundred and twenty years into the Age of Men. The _edain_ numbered four hundred to the _edhil’s_ twenty-three.

The five elves walked close to the waterfall pools, the sound of rushing waters soothing them. Glorfindel plucked late-blooming white windflowers and braided them into his lady’s hair.

Then they all heard it. Above the rushing sound of white cascading water, a distant thread of song.

Five heads turned to look at the northern hills.

A tune carried on the breeze, echoing plaintively through the valley, haunting and sad as ever. A lament three ages old.

All too soon, the voice ceased.

“I wonder if he knows,” said Elladan in a hushed voice, brushing away the tear that was sliding down his cheek.

“Yes, it is as though he has come to say goodbye,” said Elrohir, his grey eyes moist.

The five of them had the same thought as they stood there still mesmerized by the silenced song.

“We should find him,” said Glorfindel.

“Do you think he would come with us?” asked Maeglin.

“The greatest singer in Arda! If only he would!” sighed Lindir hopefully.

“ _Adar_ would have wanted it so,” said Elrohir.

Elladan nodded, his grey eyes shining with determination. “We must try.”

 

In the eight days that followed, Glorfindel and both sets of twins—dark-haired and fair-haired—went out into the hills seeking the elusive singer, fanning out to cover more ground. Three more times they heard a fleeting thread of melody that seemed to tease and beckon to them. But of the singer, they saw nothing.

“He hides as always from us, and he is as good at it as ever,” sighed Glorfindel one night to Maeglin. “And I am not as good at tracking as I once was.” The constant mutter of the spirits of slain mortals interfered with his communion with earth and tree and water, the soft voices of nature drowned out by their grumbling. Anyone else would have been driven mad, thought Maeglin.

Lying in Glorfindel’s arms, Maeglin’s black eyes were thoughtful as she pondered the singer. She alone perhaps understood why he shunned them so. She recalled a time when she had lived with bitterness and sorrow in her heart, and had shunned the revelry of feasts and the society of the court, preferring the darkness of the mines, and the solitary work of the craftsman. She remembered how Glorfindel’s light, which now cocooned her in comfort, had once repelled her. Had this luminous elflord been hunting for her in the hills, of a certainty she would have fled.

On the ninth day, the garrison from Arnor arrived. Elrond’s twins and Erestor then became preoccupied with administrative handover to the Arnorian lieutenant, and Glorfindel with turning over the training rooms, equipment and all armaments to the junior officers. The other elves busied themselves handing over housekeeping and the kitchens and the great halls to the mortals. The search for the singer was abandoned.

All too soon, there were just two nights to their departure. They were all packed. Maeglin gazed at the empty wardrobe, then at the bare walls of their room, remembering their years there. Glorfindel was sitting in bed reading a book. Maeglin climbed onto the bed, knelt by him and read the title. “ _Memoirs of a scribe in the court of Gil-galad?_ Seriously?”

“Not a word to Erestor. I shall return it to the library once I am done.” Glorfindel smiled mischievously, his azure eyes sparkling. “It is good stuff. Wickedly funny too. If Erestor does not look Raenildor up for tea in Valinor, I just might myself.” He chuckled and read out a passage to her.

She was only half-listening. She gave a laugh that did not fool him for a moment, then fell silent.

“You are thinking of the singer,” he said, reading her mind as he did so often. He stroked her cheek gently.

“I do wish he would come with us.”

He shut his book and pulled her close to him. “So do I. But what hope have we if he does not wish to be found? And indeed, he may have departed the valley. I have not heard his song these last four days.”

“Because you have been so busy with the Arnorians. _I_ have heard him.” She had little to do save take long walks in the valley. No one allowed her to do any heavy work. And it had been Camaen who had handed the forge over to the garrison blacksmith.

“True. But even if he is still here, it is plain he shuns us, _melmenya_. We have to respect that.”

She sighed. He looked at her sad, solemn face, and with a playful glint in his eyes, gave her a push so that she fell onto the bed with a bounce. They tussled until the bed was creaking so loudly and they were laughing so boisterously that Erestor banged on the wall between their chambers and shouted, “Keep it down, you two! Let decent people sleep.”

In the early hours of the morning, Maeglin awoke in the darkness, a phrase of the singer’s song haunting her.

Careful not to wake Glorfindel, she pulled on breeches, one of Glorfindel’s tunics, and donned a dark grey cloak. Then she armed herself with bow and arrows and knives as a safeguard against wolves, which did occasionally enter the valley.

She gazed down at Glorfindel, sleeping in the dark with his golden mane gleaming bright across his pillow, his strong shoulder and arm bare over the blanket, his aura shimmering on his skin. She felt such a flood of tender love that she almost kissed him, but she dared not lest she wake him. It was one of his good nights… his face and his azure eyes were peaceful as he dreamed.

She went out into the corridor. The other elves of the household had moved their chambers to the east wing now that the Arnorians occupied the rest of the house. She opened one door, looked in on bright golden hair on another pillow, and straightened Aryo’s blanket. Then she absent-mindedly picked up a pair of Arman’s leggings from the floor, folded them and laid them across a chair. The younger twin slept sprawled on his back with his pale hair and one arm falling over the edge of the bed.

She walked past the rooms where all the elven household lay, lost in Lórien, then slipped out of a side door at the end of the corridor, and descended the spiralling stone steps. She headed out to the northern slopes.

Under the pale light of the sickle moon and the stars that looked more distant now, she walked north and pondered what she planned to do. The child within her kicked, and she smiled and sent thoughts of love to it. She placed a shield of sleep and peace over her womb, so that what was to come would not disturb the infant.

What was to come? Was she in her right mind? She had not wanted to overthink it, had not said a word to Glorfindel. A chill wind blew at her cloak and her black hair. Standing finally on the high slopes, in the black shadows cast by pine and fir around her, she hesitated and felt deeply uncomfortable. _This is stupid. What was I thinking? I should turn back now._

Well, at the worst only the owls and the night-hunting red foxes would hear her. She could think of nothing else that might work. _How could it hurt to try?_

But before she could act, she heard a thin lilt of melody and shivered.

She walked towards the song.

Her heart began to pound with nervousness. She took deep breaths, preparing herself, and let the sorrow of the song she heard take her deep into her _fëa_ to the wounds and darkness of her past life.

Finally, she opened her mouth, and began to sing, in Quenya, the singer’s own native tongue.

Her voice in this life was much like her mother’s had been—strong, sweet, touched with huskiness. It carried clear and haunting in the cold air to blend with the singer’s. She knew this melody well by now, this lament for the fall of the Noldor. She joined in his song, picking up the tune and harmonizing with it, and adding her own tale of pain and regret.

His voice fell silent. She faltered and panicked, then drawing a breath, resumed her song.

As the stars marched slowly across the sky, she sang. A white lady ensnared by dark spells in a dark forest, and the birth of a dark child. A young _nér_ coming to a hidden city. The death of first the mother, then the father. A forbidden love and consuming lust. A captive’s torments in Angband. Treachery. The coming of Morgoth’s hordes upon the city…

The stars moved in their shining paths across the sky, and the moon sailed westward as she sang. She was darkness calling out to darkness. The moon climbed up into the heavens, drifts of cloud moving across its face. She walked through stands of pine and fir, carefully climbing over rocks and up and down slopes, and her song never ceased.

Then her skin prickled. _He is here._ A presence to her left, emanating sorrow and heaviness.

She turned slowly.

The grey hooded figure stood in the distance, a shadow among shadows, beneath the black fir trees. He stood tall and still. Listening.

Now she had to overcome sudden self-consciousness. Seeing the second greatest singer that ever drew breath, her tongue froze and fell dumb.

But he waited.

Her hands were cold and clammy with nervousness. Drawing a deep breath and looking away, she sang on bravely to her conclusion. The ignoble final act in a traitor’s tale. A city overrun by balrogs, orcs and serpents. A princess, a child prince, a struggle, a fight. A falling body that struck the mountain thrice… and then the dark. Six millennia in the Halls of Námo, and finally release in a new body and into a new world...

As her song closed, she feared that he would have vanished. When she looked back, he had drawn closer.

He stood tall and proud like the warrior-prince he was, but his face was still lost in the shadows of his hood. And he began to sing in return.

Soft and low, the beauty of his voice was beyond compare. It was the terrible beauty of the last song of a nightingale, impaled on a thorn, of the wind’s lament over bleak desert sands and icy wastelands, of the rushing sigh of a waterfall plunging into black depthless chasms.

Maeglin saw a long trail of blood and death, a merciless sword cutting down life upon life; saw the flames as a Thousand Caves burned, reflected in dying elven eyes; saw innocents left to perish in dark woods; blood flowing in the Havens; brothers falling, one by one, till only one remained; millennia as a homeless wanderer, shunning the company of elves and men.

The silence after the lament ended hung heavy between them. She stood still in a trance, until he moved. He sat himself gracefully upon a rocky outcrop, and the spell seemed to lift. She moved forward and sat on a low, flat rock next to his. As she lowered her pregnant body carefully, she felt the hooded one gazing at her. If nothing else, she thought wryly, curiosity had drawn him.

“ _Aiya_ , kinsman Makalaurë Kanafinwë,” she said, quietly. She had bared her naked soul to him, with all its scars and ugliness. Formality seemed pointless. “I am Lómiel who once was Lómion.”

He pushed his hood back, revealing a pale face framed by dark hair and too thin. A face ravaged by long years of grief; the sculpted cheekbones too sharp; the silver-grey eyes full of guilt and regret. The elven-light of his eyes, the light of his _hröa_ was extinguished. He might almost have passed for a mortal but for his pointed ears and the still-haunting elven beauty of his face. She was thankful that another thing he had not lost was the elven trait of caring for his person… his clothes and his person were both clean, and her nose, even more sensitive now she was expecting, detected nothing objectionable at close range though she could smell any of the _edain_ in the village ten paces away. _Such an aura of heaviness_ , she thought. She wondered that he had not faded long ago from such grief and passed into the Halls of Mandos. Perhaps it was spirit of Fëanor, inextinguishable, burning on even in his gentlest son.

The kinslayer and the traitor eyed each other.

“ _Aiya_ , Lómiel-Lómion, daughter-son of my cousin Irissë,” his voice was low, sorrowful, melodious, his eyes resting curiously on her face and her swollen belly. “This is an unheard-of strangeness. Is that Námo’s practice then? To send _néri_ back as _nissi_?”

The shadow of a frown, perhaps thinking of his brothers.

 “No,” she hastened to reassure him. “My _venno_ Laurefindel says all others he had heard of were reborn as they were before. As he himself has been.”

“Aah... The bright golden-haired one, whose light I have oft sensed from afar, and been hard-put to evade. The balrog slayer of Ondolindë, I believe. Is he kin to my Arafinwion cousins, as his hair would suggest?”

“Yes, he is Findaráto’s son. So Laurefindel and I are second cousins.”

The singer tilted his head to one side and looked at her with unreadable pale-grey eyes. “Strange have been your fates in two lives. A golden love in each, and a cousin in each, and a hidden city linking both together. It is worthy of a song.” No shadow of a smile touched his face, though his words suggested some dry amusement.

“Strange fates, yes, but I would skip the song.” A small, grim smile lifted one corner of her mouth. “I have featured in too many songs, and wish them all unwritten and unsung. But I will say this, that in the end Eru and the Valar have dealt with me more mercifully than I deserved. I love and am loved. And lawfully this time,” she added. His eye rested on the gold ring on her right forefinger. On his long slender hands clasped around his knee, he wore none.

“And you carry life,” he said, with a touch of reverence and wonder… _who once wrought such death,_ were his unspoken words.

His eyes gazed into hers more sharply then, questioning. “So. You have come seeking me with your song. And the others have disturbed me on these slopes. Why?”

Now it had come, she had not prepared what to say. She realized that deep in her heart she had not really believed she would find him where the others had failed.

“Our people’s time in these lands has passed, kinsman Makalaurë. The last white ship awaits at the havens, and the time has come to sail over the sea.” She paused. “Come with us. It is time to go home.”

His eyes grew distant at her words, and he looked away.

“Home,” he said. How he managed to infuse such depths of bitter mockery and sad wistfulness at the same time into that one word, she did not know. He made of it an alien word; something longed for, dreamed of, forever lost, eternally unattainable. “Is that what the lands west are to you?”

Part of her shivered. He had seen the vestiges of doubt in her soul.

“It may be hard for me, for I was born in Endórë and have spent both lives here. But for you—Aman surely is home? You were born and lived long and blissful years there.”

“The Makalaurë who once lived and loved in Aman is dead.”

“There are those there who love you still and surely wait for you. Your _amil_ , Nerdanel. Your _vessë_ , Annalindë. And your brothers, when they are released by Námo—”

 _“If.”_ The mellifluous voice had a sharp edge. “ _If_ Námo ever releases them. And no longer am I the son my _Amil_ raised. No longer am I the _nér_ my _vessë_ bound herself to. The Makalaurë they knew died when the Oath was sworn, and when blood was shed at Alqualondë. My presence will bring them both greater grief and shame and pain than ever my absence did.”

She felt emanating from him such a strong wave of self-loathing and hatred that it almost buffeted her. She was dazed and speechless for a while.

“I think the greatest pain for one who loves is separation. How would you know that your wife cannot forgive you or that her love would have changed?”

“She would have the pain of being held by all as the wife of a kinslayer. If I stay here I cannot hurt her more than I have already done. And the further I keep myself from her, the better.”

“The burden of being a kinslayer’s wife has been hers since the day you left. There can be nothing worse than bearing that alone.”

“Do you think any love could survive the long years, knowing what I have done?” he said bitterly. “Did you know that Annalindë was of the Teleri? It was her people we slew. Her brothers. Her friends.”

Maeglin had not known. She was dumb with the horror and pain of it.

“I dream sometimes. Of seeing love dead in her eyes. Of seeing her eyes filled with hatred and loathing.” His voice was hollow. “And I have nothing to give her. The one who loved her died when the Oath was sworn and kindred slain. There is nothing of him left to give.”

“If you do not go for your wife’s sake, there would still be others there for you,” said Maeglin desperately, feeling how weak, how ineffectual her words were. “Elrond, who is already there, shall always welcome you. It was for love of him that you first came to Imladris valley, was it not? He has never failed to speak of you kindly and with love. You have seen his twin sons seeking you this past week. And it is not Elrond’s home alone that shall be open to you. Laurefindel and I will always have place for you. You do not need to be alone. Join us. One can hide away from the judgement of the Eldar in the forests of Oromë, for the wilds of Aman are vast.”

“Ah, so that is your plan. I doubt whether Oromë should welcome an oathswearer and kinslayer in his forests as much as he would welcome you and your warrior of Valinor. And I sent Elrond away long ago that he might be free from association with one such as I.”

“He has no wish to be free of that association.”

“And I have no wish to darken his life.”

“If you would be a wanderer alone still, why not roam the lands of Aman? Forswear all our company if you will, but come. Vast are the lands, and you may lose yourself there. That is why I myself am willing to go. The mortal lands are no longer the place for our kind.”

His eyes narrowed. “Do you think the Valar would allow a kinslayer to wander freely across their lands? I have greater freedom here, if it can be called that. For me… there is nothing in Aman now but the judgement of the Valar.”

“May that judgement not be merciful, and all forgiven? The Valar know your regret.”

His haunted eyes gazed into hers, and she felt herself pulled into a spinning vortex of slaughter and a thousand cries of death.

“Once, perhaps, I hoped,” he whispered. “But no… it cannot be. Their blood cries forever to the heavens and dyes red the Sundering Sea. There is no forgiveness for such sin.”

She shivered, and closed her eyes to break the spell of his silver gaze. “You are wrong,” she said huskily. “A hundred thousand deaths were on me. And yet Eru gave me a new life in a new body.  If that is not forgiveness, I do not know what is.”

“We are not the same, child. You killed a Firstborn only when compelled by Sauron. Your sword is otherwise clean of Firstborn blood.”

“But not my soul.”

“A treachery wrenched from you by Moringotto’s lieutenant in the bowels of the Dark Lord’s stronghold, after you had been subjected to his choicest tortures? I see a mitigating factor in that. Sauron’s hand was not on my throat when I swore the Oath, nor when I sliced open the innocent, nor when I snatched the silmarils from the Valar themselves.”

“Eru looks not at deeds alone but the heart’s condition. Your heart is full of remorse. And in all you did there was no hate. I hated much, and there was malice and lust and dark selfish desire in what I did. You were driven only by your Oath.”

In the haunted weariness of his eyes, she saw a flicker of surprise at her persistence.

“There is a most important thing you have not thought of,” he said in a level voice. “The Doom of the Noldor is upon me and the Curse of the Dispossessed. If you take me on your ship, and the Valar oppose my coming to Aman, you and all on that ship with you shall never find your way to the blessed shores. You take a great risk. And for what? Why is it so important to you that I go?”

“I do not know!” Maeglin replied in anguish. “Perhaps it is that your song has comforted and touched me in my own pain, and I feel kinship with you. Perhaps it is because for the Quendi to stay here in the mortal lands is to diminish and dwindle and fade, and I cannot bear that you should. Perhaps it is because I know something of guilt and regret, and cannot bear the thought of any shouldering an eternity of it. Perhaps it is because if a traitor such as I can receive mercy, I know anyone can.”

The singer was silent. The steady gaze of his ancient silver eyes made the words she had spoken sound empty to her own ears.

“You could have thrown yourself into the sea when you threw the silmaril,” Maeglin said more calmly. “Yet you did not.”

“Perhaps I was not as brave as Maitimo,” he said softly.

“I do not think it had aught to do with bravery. It is self-hate so great you believe you deserve not even death. Is it the unforgiveness of others or the judgement of the Valar that bars your way home as much as your own unforgiveness and judgement of yourself? All curses Eru can cancel save those we lay upon ourselves, _tyenya_ Makalaurë. Six thousand years has been long enough. Punishment enough. Break your curse and come with us. Please. We do not wish to sail without you.”

Another silence descended, filled only by the wind wailing through the stands of pine and fir. The sky towards the east was beginning to pale.

“Blessed are you whom Eru has forgiven much. And blessed are you, who have found love and a new life after much guilt and grief. I envy you,” said the kinslayer softly in his musical voice. “Your concern touches me, young kinswoman. But I shall not take my taint and curse upon your white ship.” He rose to his feet, his darkness and sorrow gathering around him almost as tangibly as the cloak he wore. “Sail, and be blessed. I shall have comfort thinking of you safe in Oromë’s woods, as I walk among mortal men.” His hand reached down and touched her cheek, like the brush of a moth’s wing. She had a brief glimpse of the thick, knotted burn scars disfiguring his palm. “There are two who wait for you there. I must be gone.”

And suddenly, though she could have sworn she had not blinked, he had vanished. She stared into the space where he had been, feeling as bereft as though she had lost a brother.

“Ammë?” said two hushed voices in unison nearby.

She turned her head and saw them. Her two beautiful sons. They came out from the stand of pines where they had been concealed, and their faces were tear-stained and stricken. And she saw in their eyes that they knew, that they had heard everything.

She stared at them in speechless horror.

They came to their mother, and sat on either side of her on the rock, wrapping their arms around her in warm, comforting embrace as their father so often did. She shrank away from their touch in shame.

“We saw you leaving the house—”

“We heard everything—”

“We love you, Ammë—”

“We understand now…”

“We will take care of you…”

And as Maeglin began to sob, her sons comforted her in the protective circle of their strong arms, their heads together, two golden and one black. 

“Why did you not tell us sooner?” said Aryo, pressing his cheek against hers.

“I did not know how,” she wept.

“All that matters is we know now,” said Arman, kissing her other cheek and hugging her tight.

And that was how Glorfindel found them, just before the first light of the sun broke over the hilltops. He stood before them, wordlessly. They looked up at him with haunted eyes, his sons burdened, half-dazed with new knowledge, his lady shadowed with grief. Then the elflord came forward and gently pulled his lady up onto her feet and into his arms.

Glorfindel looked into the eyes of his sons, and saw that they were troubled, and needed time to think. He smiled reassuringly at them. “Go back to the house, _yonyat_ ,” he said quietly. “ _Amil_ and I will stay here for a while. The four of us shall talk anon.”

Glorfindel led Maeglin to the ledge, not far away, the love nest where they had spent their first Midsummer night together two hundred years ago. It was a place they had often come to over the years, always finding it restful and blessed by happy memories. The sun spilled over the mountain tops into the valley as they sat on the ledge and she told him about her encounter with Maglor.

“It is his choice. You said all that could be said. Do not grieve.”

“There may be no more ships.”

“Who knows? He may yet find his peace in these mortal lands. And one day he may yet find his way to Aman. Círdan may have built his last ship in Endórë, but if Legolas can build himself a ship, why not Makalaurë?”

“Or he may go to Námo,” she said. “There was a moment… just the briefest of moments… when my hand thought to go to my knife… and I thought… _one thrust… one thrust into his heart… he will barely feel it, and it would release him from his endless wandering and exile_.” She did not look at him. “Does that horrify you?”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. “No, it does not. But I am glad you did not. No matter how good the intent, it would be a murder and a kinslaying still, and I would not wish that on your soul… And you might have been hurt. He is taller and stronger than you, and a far more seasoned warrior. And skilled, as Egalmoth discovered to his cost. He might have welcomed death, he might have retaliated.  I am glad we will never know.”

“He would have been more likely to be hurt than I. He was so thin, so weary. His cloak looked so threadbare. I wish I had given him mine. Or had been able to give him something to eat. Could we leave some clothes and food for him somewhere? And boots. He looked like he could use new boots.”

He took her face in his hands and kissed her tenderly, but when he gazed into her eyes after that, his own azure eyes were laughing. “Is there anything in Arda more heartwarming than Maeglin Lómion feeling maternal towards a son of Fëanáro? If only Itarillë could have heard that!”

“Are you laughing at me? I am serious!” she snapped.

“I know, I know, _melmenya_. Fear not, we will leave some clothes and boots for him. But you forget that he is a warrior of some renown—”

“—he did not even have a sword upon him! How does he hunt? Should we leave him some weapons?”

Glorfindel chuckled. “If he wanted weapons, I am sure he is resourceful enough to get his hands on some. How do you imagine he has clothed and fed himself all these years? He was High King of the Noldor for a brief season. He ruled his own lands for four and a half centuries. He sings songs of power even in a time of fading. Believe me, this is one hardy Noldo, and he is more than able to care for himself. He has survived for six millennia, after all, in spite of barely trying.”

He helped her to her feet. As they walked down the hill towards the house, he glanced at her face.

“Something else troubles you?”

“He said… he said that he would not come on our ship lest we be turned away for his sake… might the ship not be turned away as well, because of me?”

He had thought of that for many years, even before he confided in Elrond, and pondered it long, and arrived at his own conclusion. “No. I do not believe that,” he said unhesitatingly. “You were not sent back to Endórë to be exiled, _melmenya_. I am certain of that. You were sent here by the Valar for a purpose, and to sail to Aman once that purpose was fulfilled.”

“Purpose?” she said, looking at him quizzically. “To reforge Narsil? To save Elrohir’s life?”

He slid his hand behind her neck, drew her to him, and smiled down into her puzzled black eyes. “Why, to be loved by me, of course. And to love me. And to learn what it is to be happy.” 

 _If that is not the silliest thing I have ever heard,_ she was about to snap, but as she opened her mouth he sealed it with a long, lingering kiss. And as she wrapped her arms around him on that rocky hillside, the silly words in their sheer simplicity suddenly had the ring of profoundest truth to them.

 

On their last morning in Imladris, the valley was clothed in autumn colours, and the sun was gentle and warm.

As Glorfindel helped Erestor load boxes of his books upon a wagon, the advisor suddenly froze, his green eyes staring behind Glorfindel.

Glorfindel turned to see that the peredhel twins had emerged onto the terrace with Celeborn. The silver lord, like everyone else, was dressed in his travel clothes.

“Lord Celeborn!” said Glorfindel, his face lighting up. “Do you ride with us to Mithlond?”

Celeborn smiled enigmatically. “That I do.”

Glorfindel glowed with gladness. “And… do you journey with us _beyond_ Mithlond?”

“ _Daeradar_ has informed us—” said Elladan, “—that he will sail with us to Aman!” burst out Elrohir with a joyous grin.

Glorfindel’s azure eyes gleamed with triumph as he turned to Erestor and smiled wickedly at him.

The advisor blanched, turned, ran up the flight of stairs, and fled into the house.

Glorfindel gave him a five-second head start. Then he scaled the wall of the terrace, vaulted over the balustrades, and raced swift as the wind after the vanished advisor.

“It amazes me why he cannot simply use the stairs like everyone else,” said Elladan, sounding very much like his father.

“The stairs offer no challenge; that is why,” said Elrohir.

Celeborn raised an eyebrow. “My grandsons, do either of you know what that was all about?”

His grandsons smiled and shook their heads.

“It is just Erestor and Glorfindel being Erestor and Glorfindel.”

“Since we were babies, they have had this long-standing tradition.”

“It seems fitting it should be thus on our last day here.”

“Now we await what will happen next…”

“It should not be long now…”

In the distance, they heard a wail and a splash.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Ivanneth (S) – September

Gwinig (S) – little baby

 

* * *

_A very rushed chapter… just a few changes made so the old version is pretty much intact. It has been busy busy busy at work, and I am not out of the woods yet, but I really wanted to get this chapter out before the end of July. Thank you all for taking time to read and to review and comment—you have no idea how much it means to me. You keep me going!_

_Two little things I realized after I finished writing this—Maglor’s wife being of the Teleri must have been influenced by Umeko’s Letters From Formenos! I was wondering where I got that from! And when I reread my description of Maglor, I laughed when I realized that Maeglin’s relief that he did not smell must have been influenced by another Umeko piece – Figwit’s Journal. If you have read it you will know what I mean… ;)_


	35. A Tapestry of Three Worlds

High on a mountainside, he sits shrouded in the cool shade of dark firs. Keen grey eyes gaze down upon the train of elven carts and horses, tiny in the distance, as they depart the valley forever. Their fair voices lift in song as they make their way towards the mountain pass.

He watches as they turn oft to look back on a place that is home no longer, yet deeply beloved still, and abandoned with regret.

He watches as the last rider lingers, hair gleaming rich gold, and bestows on the valley a parting gift of song. In the valley, mortals pause in chores, or gather to listen spellbound, as this final song of farewell falls like fresh spring rain upon their hearts. Then, at last, even as the last haunting note of beauty from his lips echoes in the hills, the golden rider turns his white horse and vanishes through the mountain pass, shining in the morning sun.

The wanderer waits till the last notes of the others' song fade beyond the hearing of his elven ears. He then descends the hill like a wraith. He knows not how oft he will venture here again in years to come. The children of his soul-son are gone. And his blood-cousins' children, and all of his kind. And his  _fëa_  is heavy, heavy beyond even the power of his wondrous voice to express. He is silent and hollow-hearted as he walks, but the trees sigh and mourn in the breeze as he passes them by.

He heads without hurry towards the pass. He has nothing if not time.

He travels along the trail left by elven cartwheels and light elfhorse hooves, and sees in his mind the roads they will take west to Lindon. Sees the sea stretching to infinity that he has long ages wandered by. He knows each cove and cliff and shore and rock of the coastline with the intimacy of a lover, who has seen land shaped over long millennia of weathering by Manwë's winds and Ossë's waves, as he walked the long leagues and added his song to theirs.

But his road will not take him back there. Not yet.

He leaves the valley heavier in  _hröa_  as well than when he came. On his back is a pack of supple, oiled leather, dyed a slate-grey. It had been left upon the stone where a kinslayer and a traitor had sat and spoken. He had stared long from a hidden vantage point at the gift, and left it there, resolved to deny himself whatever comforts it held.

But at last, in the black of the night, he had returned, slipped out of hiding like a shadow, and taken it.

In it, a cloak, a pair of boots, a knife, a short sword, a flask of  _miruvor_ , a dozen leaves of elven waybread. And a note in Quenya scrawled in the loose, flowing hand of a certain tall elflord.

_Still we beseech you, kinsman—come, come with us. Yet wheresoever your road leads may you find peace and blessing. The Valar in their mercy and grace keep you well._

The wanderer feels the bite of cold in the air. Whispers of winter. As the tracks of the Imladrim disappear westward, his feet turn south.

 

The sun smiles warm and bright upon the bright, sparkling waves of the harbour, and white terns hover on the playful winds above in a clear sky of deepest cerulean blue.

He is sitting on the wharf, laughing and singing with some Telerin fishermen as he helps them mend their nets, when he hears the shout.

_"Glorfindel!"_

He turns his golden head sharply at that name.

The stranger who had been running toward him along the wharf comes to an abrupt stop, and stammers an apology.

"I—I beg your pardon—" shouts the pale-haired, blue-eyed elf in Sindarin over the distance between them. "I thought you one whom I know."

Rising to his feet, the shining elflord leaves the fishing nets and closes the distance between them, his bright mane streaming unbraided in the strong sea breeze. As he approaches, lithe and swift and dressed simply like the other fishermen in an open-necked linen tunic and breeches, he yet looks princely… and the newcomer to Aman is thinking that he had not believed anyone could have a gaze like that except Lady Galadriel—and how does a gaze that penetrating feel…  _kind?_

_Lady Galadriel… by Araw Tauron, this one could be she in male form, her very twin…_

"Glorfindel," the stranger of Aman says eagerly, his smile warm and luminous. "You know him, then? Have you just arrived from Ennor,  _mellon?_ " His exilic Sindarin is fluent and melodious.

"Yes, our ship has just docked," replies the Sinda, still staring and transfixed by the grey eyes that seem to gaze into the depths of his  _fëa_. "Glorfindel is the dearest of friends to me, and I thought you were he, when I espied your hair... but I should have known he could not have arrived—not yet—not when his ship was set to sail a month after mine—"

The Sinda had not thought it possible for that brilliant gaze to intensify, but it does. The fair face of the elflord lights with an incandescence to rival any smile of Glofindel's.

"He has  _sailed?"_

 

The Halls of Mandos are quieter now. Fewer of the  _fëar_  of the Firstborn now remain.

Mandos floats down from his shining dome, past tiers of chambers. His eyes linger over those who, undergoing cleansing and healing still, are confined to chambers and tended by his maiar.

Then there are the others. Those who have chosen to stay. Who have declined to return to the land of the living. Mandos pauses at the chamber of one such.

" _No_ ," says the white, fiery  _fëa_  within, before the Vala can even speak a word. " _Not unless you bring her back to me from beyond the circles of Arda."_ At the heart of its whiteness swirls a deep gash of crimson. The wound of a love that will not be released or be healed.

 _"It cannot be done,"_  replies the Lord of the Dead. " _Not until Arda is unmade. In this, the will of Eru is immutable."_

_"Then till that day I shall remain."_

Gwîr has appeared at the side of her lord as the Noldo speaks. The pair of Valar regard the lovelorn  _fëa_ gravely _._

 _"Yet I may give him what comfort I may,"_  says the Weaver. Scenes appear on the walls of the chamber. Twilight at a northern lake surrounded by mountains. A pair of lovers, fair and dark. There are other scenes the Valie will not paint… the parting, quiet and dignified, that had been followed by a storm of private grief… an  _ellon_ stealthily spying in the woods along a favourite pathway, watching the passage of the years take their toll upon the face and frame so beloved.

The Weaver leaves them in their eternal spring in the hills of Dorthonion. And the Judge looks dour as they depart the chamber. " _I mislike this,"_  he grumbles to his lady. " _So do you cocoon his wounded heart in soft forgetfulness of pain, in sweet dreams and memory. You deny him the pain of his healing, for it is meet that he should gird himself like a warrior, and take up his flame, and live again."_

 _"A time for judgment, and a time for mercy,"_  replies the Weaver. " _It is meet that we relieve what pain and sorrow we may, since he will not release his wound."_

_"It is the mystery of these Children… that they would cherish their wounds so dearly rather than relinquish them and be whole."_

_"No mystery but the mystery of love,"_ says the grave Weaver softly.  _"And know you not what that is, my lord?"_

And she ghosts a kiss across his pale lips before gliding away lower.

They descend, then, to the middle reaches where lie the vast halls of history, where the story of Eä plays eternally on the high walls of each wide corridor.

Many of the Firstborn, souls shining white, choose to spend a season in these halls once their cleansing is complete. Here, they discover what awaits them in the land of the living, learn what has happened since their demise, search for beloved faces…

Days and months and years fly past easily here, as the grand march of history unfolds events great and small, and the tapestries of time draw one in, so that one journeys mesmerized from one flow of images to the next, captivated by things both dark and beautiful, lofty and humble, grievous and glorious.

There are maiar who hover in these halls to tend these souls. For all too easily can the scenes of history inflict fresh hurts that need to be salved, or bring knowledge they must grapple to come to terms with. A few will need to spend time in the Gardens of Lórien once released, as they transition to the world of the living.

Mandos and Gwîr have now come to the aid of a maia, who has summoned them, uncertain how to answer a question posed by one such  _fëa_.

This  _fëa_  has floated restlessly through the halls, exploring the vast heights and depths and width of the realm of Mandos, and searched down these long passages telling the history of Arda from the first music to the present.

Now, she faces the Lord of the Dead and his Lady as they appear, and demands of them:

_"Where is my son?"_

 

The old dwarf is stirred to consciousness by the well-known voice in his ear. " _Mellon-nín…_ here are two visitors to see you."

He grunts, resenting disturbance, as he feels still the detestable rise and fall of the ship. He slowly opens his eyes to see the face of his best friend close to his own.

Legolas gives Gimli a wan smile, his fair face full of concern. Two blurry figures stand on the other side of the narrow bed, their heads haloes of warm, bright gold. The dwarf's eyes are dim, and he cannot make them out clearly. The one closer to him bends a face closer to his.

A smile slowly creases the old dwarf's face. "Why… it is she," he says in a weak, quavering voice. "I had forgotten… how surpassing fair the Lady of the Woods is."

"I welcome you to the blessed realm beyond the west, Gimli son of Glóin," she says with a radiant smile.

"Three shining hairs you gave me, Lady. They remain in Middle Earth as a treasure of my people. Now I have laid eyes once more… on that which is most fair and bright… I depart to the Halls of Waiting in peace."

"Do not say that yet, Gimli," says Legolas sadly. "We had plans…"

"Nay, Gimli son of Glóin, hasten not yet thither. Linger awhile, and find refreshment for both spirit and body here." A cool hand is laid on his wrinkled brow.

"And for yet a while," says a new voice, as melodious as the lady's but lower, and strangest of all, it speaks fluently in ancient Khuzdul. "For yet a while, son of Durin the Deathless, thou mayst even visit the Halls of Mahal thy Maker and speak with him if thou wish..."

A third face stoops over him, so like the Lady's, and also so like another he knows.

"Glorfindel?" he murmurs. For the first time it strikes him how similar the elflord of Imladris and the Lady are in appearance, now he sees them side by side.

"Nay, worthy Khuzd," smiles the elflord, speaking still in Khuzdul. "Not Glorfindel. In days of yore thine fathers named me Felak-gundu."

"Felak-gundu!" marvels the dwarf. "Hewer of caves, ancient friend of the Khazâd of Harn Baland!"

His voice has been growing stronger as he speaks, and Legolas heaves a sigh of relief. For a moment, he had thought he was losing his friend. The aged dwarf had been so fragile that Legolas had been afraid to even move him after the ship had docked.

Both the golden lord and lady lay gentle hands on the dwarf – the lady on his brow, the lord on the thick white beard over his heart – and warmth and strength begin to flow back into the old limbs and the heart to beat more strongly. Legolas watches as colour returns to his friend's face. The elf smiles.

The dwarf looks at the three elves bending over him and blinks, seeing them clearly now.

"How are you feeling now,  _mellon-nîn?"_  asks Legolas with a grin.

"Bloody awful," groans the dwarf, feeling the ship gently bob up and down in the harbour. "Get me off this accursed ship!"

 

The wanderer moves like a shadow beneath golden-leaved boughs of  _mellyrn_. His feet have walked the length and breadth of Ennor, but never in the days of Nenya's power did he enter these woods. Only in the last few decades, long after it has lain abandoned by the  _galadhrim_ , has he wintered here. The trees of gold awaken memories of Tirion, and though such thoughts of the distant past bring both pain and pleasure, his feet have been drawn here yet again. Each winter he comes, he sees evidence of the fading… the leaves more sparse, the gold less bright… but beautiful and enchanted still.

He approaches a great mound at the heart of the woods, with its two circles of trees, white and gold _._ Even from afar he senses that he is not alone… senses sorrow and despair and the faint light of a life slowly ebbing away.

She is as a shadow herself, as she lies at the foot of the greatest mallorn at the center of the mound, arrayed in her black veil and dress of mourning. Her raven tresses lie spread around her, streaked through now with silver. She is pale as death, and lines of mortality and grief have in the past few months etched themselves upon the face that once was fairest. But still, he knows her.

He approaches silently. Kneels near her. Recalls a child running at her father's side, a maiden singing on the hillslopes. He had let his own song fall silent to listen with pleasure to this nightingale.

He has sung naught but grief and lamentation for millennia. But now, ever so softly, from his lips lilts that tune of a maiden in the springtime of her life. And her grey eyes slowly open. They are dim, unfocused, and search awhile before they find him.

"You," she whispers in Sindarin, her voice barely audible. "I know you."

"Arwen," he says, softly.

"Is…  _Ada_  here?"

"No, child."

She closes her eyes. "He sang us… songs you sang him…" she breathes.

Her voice cracks with dryness, her lips are parched. He takes out a flask and makes to drip  _miruvor_  into her mouth, but she turns aside from it with a frown, wishing nothing to delay her dying.

He sets down the flask. He is intimate with such despair and loneliness. Such sorrow. "Daughter, how may I help you?" he asks gently.

"…will you… sing…?"

He takes her hand as it lies on the still-green grass. It is cold, so cold, thin and frail, the bones like a bird's beneath flesh grown loose.

He begins to sing the Lay of Leithian.

Her fingers tighten ever so slightly on his. Tears shine in her eyes, but the ghost of a smile touches her lips.

 

He awakens in the middle of the night, and finds her side of the bed empty. With a stretch, he rises and drapes a silver robe over his shoulders, then heads out of the room. He feels where she is.

He finds her sitting at the center of the small room off his study, curled up on a small couch, looking up at the portraits on the wall. The glowing lamps hovering in the air shimmer bright on the pale gold hair that tumbles over her shoulders… hair that is just that shade between gold and silver found in a rare few of both the Teleri and the Vanyar.

She turns her head and smiles luminously as he comes up to her with his golden hair flowing down his back. It has always been their joke that it is he who looks more the Vanya, and she more like the half-Teler. She wears a loose blue silk night-robe embroidered with white lilies. It brings out the colour of her eyes, eyes bright with the light of the two Trees. She shifts to make space for him on the couch. He seats himself and pulls her into his arms.

"What happened,  _arimelda?"_  he asks.

"Oh, I had a dream." She is calm, almost serene, as she puts her arms around his neck.

"Of him?"

Images of the golden-haired balrog slayer shine on the wall before them.

"No… her."

"Oh…" The prince is concerned. After five thousand years, the other woman is not an awkward topic between them. But for his princess to come here, in the middle of the night, careful not to wake him… "Will you not tell me of your dream?"

She hesitates, and his concern deepens. Then she says, in a level voice, "I dreamed I was slapping her and calling her a miserable slut."

Of all the things he might have expected, that would probably have been the last. He gapes at his sweet lady, who after so many millennia is still able to surprise him. "I did not even think you knew that word, beloved," he finally says. The word had not even existed, before the Exile. The things that had been brought back to these shores from the mortal lands…

"I did not either. I must have heard it somewhere," she says matter-of-factly. "I did not know either, how  _angry_  I still was, with her. And I thought myself so forgiving." She looks rueful but there is a wry smile touching her lips.

And he remembers that day, five millennia past, when she had come running out to meet him at Avallonë, feeling the restless, conflicting surges of excitement and anguish within him.

"What is it?" she had asked, anxiously. "Why do you shut me from your thoughts?"

Wordlessly, he had taken her away from the villa of his Telerin cousin, whom they had been visiting, to a quiet and secluded cove along the shoreline where they could speak in secret.

"Please," she had said, as he paced about the rock pools. "Tell me what has happened."

"I do not know how to… I scarcely understand it myself…" He stopped his pacing and took her into his arms. "I love you so much. You do trust me?"

"Of course," she had said simply.

" _Arimelda_ … I have a son. I have just seen him today.  _I have a son!_ And I know not how he could have come to be. There has  _never_  been anyone but you…"

Her mouth was slack with shock, her large eyes dazed, uncomprehending. "A… a son?" she faltered, and pulled away from him. "Not… Gildor?"

"No… my own flesh and blood. I  _knew_ , the moment I saw him. I…  _recognized_  him in my  _fëa_. Laurefindel of Ondolindë, slayer of the  _valarauco_."

She knew the name. All Eldamar did. "How…?" she whispered, "…how can this be?"

"I have an idea  _when_ it happened. Laurefindel…" He remembered again the tall, lithe figure waving from the white ship, the radiant smile, the golden hair blowing in the sea winds, and his mind shared the images with hers. "Laurefindel was about a month out of the womb when he came to Nevrast in the fifty-first year of the sun. Itarillë celebrated his begetting day on the forty-second day of  _Yavië_." He paused. "I was in Doriath, then..." There had been many Iathrin admirers, numerous fair ones vying for his attention. "By what enchantments and trickery this came to be, I know not… but I would assay a guess that my sister does. Who else would have brought the child to Turno in Nevrast?"

He remembered the dream of his beloved he had in Menegroth—that he had treasured so deeply and that had comforted his loneliness for four centuries. It wrenched him to realize now that this dream was no gift of Irmo, as he had esteemed it, but witchery.

Amárië too, was recalling the dream. Her face and voice were bleak. "So that was no dream. It was real… and… it means it was another, not I, to whom you were wed."

His grey eyes flashed and he held her tightly to him. "No! A wedding is an act of love and free will, and if I was indeed bewitched, it was no wedding. And if wed to any, it was  _you_  I dreamed that night,  _you_  that I loved and wed. To me, he is  _our_  son. He even has your eyes. The exact shade of blue..."

And suddenly, he saw Rílel's azure eyes.

"Celeborn's niece," he said flatly.

And then had followed years of seeking and enquiry. Piecing together details of the life of the son he never knew. Quietly seeking news of Rílel, but finding always that she was still with Mandos. Finally, meeting with Turgon again, once he returned among the living, but learning little more than he had already guessed of Galadriel's part in it.

Through it all, Amárië had been magnificent.

"I feel sad for her," she had said to her beloved. "She loved and gambled and lost all. You and the child. And at last, her life."

It had been Amárië who had quietly approached Idril some years after, and had the first painting of Glorfindel commissioned as a gift for Finrod's begetting day. Over five thousand years, she had added to the collection of paintings, even as Finrod's research slowly yielded an extensive number of maps and notes. Finally, she had suggested moving it all into that small room off the study.

"I may share no blood with him," she would say. "But I love him because he is yours. And all I learn of him only makes me love him all the more.

But the news that Glorfindel was finally on his way back to Aman unsettled her. And now, this dream. They gaze at the portraits of his son. One, where he is seated on a beautiful white horse, smiles down at them with Rílel's mouth.

"I woke up," Amárië is saying, "just as I was about to pull her hair."

Finrod chuckles and kisses her. "So, my dove is a hawk at heart."

"A wildcat, more like. And the worst thing? I  _enjoyed_  my dream." She sighs and leans her silvery-gold head on her hand. "Not very Vanyarin at all. Truth be told, I was relieved to hear she does not wish to leave Námo's halls. I almost danced with joy." She looks at her love. "Perhaps I need some time in Estë's care. Am I not a horrible, hypocritical  _nís?_ "

"No. You are the kindest and most generous of  _nissi,_ but only human withal. And I love you for it."

"Well… we are all packed for Avallonë. Why not leave now? The stars are so beautiful tonight."

"Certainly. I shall let Edrahil know."

And, hand in hand, they leave the little room.

 

As the white ship cleaves swiftly through the waters, Arman effortlessly climbs the central mast and sits on the small platform at the top by the side of his twin. They gaze out at the endless stretch of sea before them.

"Another fortnight to where we leave the Bent World, Círdan guesses," Arman says. "I feel… excited and terrified and impatient all at once." For all of them, and all the mariners aboard, it is a great leap into the unknown.

"Me too," Aryo says softly, after a while.

Arman glances at his twin, but keeps silent.

"I am all right," says Aryo tetchily.

"Did I say anything?"

"I am so done with love."

"I said nothing!"

"And it is just as well. Who would marry the sons of a traitor?"

"Aryo!"

"I could not marry anyone, and keep such a secret from her."

Arman cuffs his twin sharply. "That is  _Ammë_  you are talking about, toad! So are you ashamed of her? Is she this dirty secret you have to hide?"

"I love  _Ammë_. I am just stating the hard truth. Her past is a secret all of us will have to hide. And if either of us marries, the secret risks being exposed."

"Well, I would like to think anyone I love enough to marry would be trustworthy enough to keep my secrets!"

"Arman! What  _nís_  would be able to accept that our  _Ammë_  was once a  _nér_  who lusted for his cousin, betrayed his own kind to Moringotto, destroyed a whole city, and basically caused our  _Atto's_  death? And is regarded by the Quendi as the most evil person in their history? Far worse than even Fëanáro and his sons—?"

"Shut  _up_ , you louse!" Arman clouts his twin hard.

" _Owwhh!_  Look, are you saying that it has been easy for  _you_  to accept?"

"She is just  _Ammë_ , all right? The rest—is—is history. That happened to a different person. In a different life. It should not matter anymore."

"But it does, Arman! None of us will ever be able to run away from who she was."

"Yes _, was!_  She is the best  _Ammë_  in Arda, and you and I adore her and the rest is all  _muk_  that happened six thousand years ago. There is no use talking about it, so—just— _don't!"_

"Fine. What do you want to talk about then?"

"Plans. There is so much for us to do in Aman." Arman speaks in a rush. "Vast lands to explore, so much to see…  _Ammë_  and  _Atto_  have given us leave to make our own way, but I was thinking we should head south with them. Then, after the baby is born, we could seek Oromë, and ride with him as  _Atto_  once did."

"Oh…" says Aryo. "Well… you know that I always planned to seek apprenticeship somewhere. If not with Aulë, then with Mahtan. And you could hone your talent with jewels."

"But it can wait, surely. Just a hundred years. Let us roam awhile first and see all the wondrous lands  _Atto_  described. We could always do crafts even a  _millennium_  from now—"

" _Amil_  says one ought to start young. She did—"

"Why? We are immortal, are we not?"

"We should develop our powers and creativity now, in our youth, the optimum time for an Elda to learn and grow in his craft. Think of it. By our age, Fëanáro had developed Tengwar and made the  _palantiri_ —"

"Oh, Eru! You are  _not_  going to even begin to compare us to  _Fëanáro!"_ Arman rolls his blue eyes skyward.

"Telperinquar and  _Amil_  began smithing from the time they could walk—"

"Their fathers were obsessive, despotic maniacs, that is why—"

"Curufinwë was  _not!_  He was a  _brilliant_  craftsman, only he never escaped his father's shadow—"

"And so he messed up his son. And  _you,_  orc face, just leaped to the defence of a kinslayer instead of our maternal  _grandfather_ —"

"That kinslayer is our great-uncle on both sides, troll breath."

" _Half_ -great-uncle who betrayed our noble paternal grandfather," Arman shoots back. "Don't forget that!"

They gaze out at the endless ocean and feel the roll of the ship.

"It feels strange, does it not? From having no kin save  _Amil_  and  _Atar_ , to suddenly having hundreds," says Arman.

"And some extremely complicated and scary kin at that."

" _Ná_. Just look at  _Amil_ 's  _Atar_."

"I can understand why  _Amil_  found it hard to tell us anything."

Arman sighs. "I always thought that if there was a new Gondolin in Eldamar, I would want to live there, you know? Go into the service of Turukáno. Meet Ecthelion and the other lords… and I dreamed that  _Atar_  might even head the House of the Golden Flower again."

"I know,  _pitya_. I loved  _Atar_ 's stories of Gondolin as much as you."

" _Atar_  may never speak to any of them again."

"He might, if he keeps  _Amil_  a secret."

"Is  _Amil_  going to have to hide forever? And we keep her a secret till the Second Music?"

Aryo sighs. "I do not know. But I am glad we are finally talking about it."

"What is the point? I hate talks that end in no solutions." Arman sinks his chin onto his hand. "Now I feel like  _muk_. That is all the good talking about things does."

They feel the wind on their faces, and watch the sun shine dazzling on the waves.

"A compromise," says Aryo. "Five years of craft apprenticeship, then five years of travel or in Oromë's forest. Then we can decide what we each want to do. We can take separate roads if need be, and meet on feast days."

Arman smiles. Ever since Ithilien, they had been as inseparable as they had been as children. Arman had feared to leave Aryo alone for more than a day, for he tended to sink into black moods. Aryo in turn had seemed to cling to his brother like a lifeline. "Done," says the younger brother.

The twins give each other a hug, which quickly turns into a contest to see who is first to put a chokehold on the other.

Then, laughing like elflings, they slide down the mast in search of lunch.

 

Mandos had brought her there, once, but that was a long while ago. It is hard for her to find his chamber again amongst the innumerable ones spiralling skyward in the Halls of Awaiting.

She finds it at last, and floats in. Her  _fëa_  shines white in the gloom. His is still an angry swirl of darkness more than light.

This chamber itself is dimmed and shadowy from the images that restlessly flit over the walls. The visitor watches the familiar faces and places as they appear fleetingly and are gone.

" _You again. Why are you still here?"_  comes the thought from the  _fëa_  of this chamber.  _"Go."_

 _"I have not been here for an age,"_  says the visitor. " _Have you no better welcome for me?"_

_"You wanted your freedom from me badly enough, once upon a time. You have it now. So. Leave."_

_"You do not mean that,"_  comes the reply, half teasing, half tender.

_"Remember this?"_

On one of the walls, a small boy with eyes of obsidian black, a welt dark on his left cheekbone, face twisted in a scowl of hate. Too proud to cower before the raised fist, too proud to even shed a tear at the pain. The eyes, murderous, flicker with golden fire as they look up through a thick curtain of black hair at the one towering tall before him. The small hands are clenched into fists.

 _"It is true I hated you for that,"_  says she quietly.  _"I could have killed you for it."_

_"You had many chances to. Yet you did not."_

_"My love was greater than my hate."_

_"Love…"_  He is bitter, mocking.  _"Was that what we had?"_

_"Part of it was. A dozen times at least I thought of leaving, of taking him far beyond your reach…"_

_"I never chained you or locked you up. You chose to stay."_

_"Yes. You know why. One look, one touch, made me yours again. I loathed you. I needed you. You were not always the brute. You had… moments."_

The boy, slightly older and taller, stands upon a raised block, fashioning a blade upon an anvil with a skill beyond his years, his shoulders already showing strength. He turns his head and gazes at them with sullen, proud eyes, his pale face schooled into expressionlessness.

 _"I taught him discipline. Strength. To be a man. He learned fast,"_  says the dark one. Then, very quietly,  _"He hates me."_

_"Hated. He has forgiven you."_

_"Is he gone?"_

She is silent, wondering how much to tell.

 _"Yes."_  Almost two  _yéni_  ago, she had found out.

She decides not to tell.

_"You should be gone as well. Go find him. You hate being here."_

_"I am going. I have come to say goodbye."_  The white  _fëa_  draws very close to the darker.  _"Come find us, when you leave."_

Another scene. A throne room. A javelin flying through the air. Death by a slow poison stealing through the veins.

 _"I forgave you for that long ago,"_  says the white  _fëa_. " _I would have returned to you, had you not pursued._ " She hovers, poised to go.  _"I shall be looking for you. You shall find me, if you seek me, riding free with the Lord of the Hunt."_

And then she is gone.

The images shift. A cell in a dungeon. Despair in black eyes of one desiring naught but his own end. He waits for the news he knows will come, of a death. She might have been saved, had he spoken. Had they known of the poison ere it crept into her heart.

But he had kept his silence, knowing himself already dead. And claiming her as his own even in death.

Six and a half millennia were not long enough to atone for such sin.

 _"It was not love,"_  growls the murderer quietly to the empty air.

Emptier and darker than before feels the chamber, now he knows her truly gone.

 

The discussion on deck is conducted in all seriousness.

"To be an  _elleth_  is surely disguise enough?" says Lindir to the others.

"Yet I knew her from the first," says Glorfindel, looking fondly at her. "The eyes. It was her eyes."

"I certainly cannot change my  _eyes._ "

"Hmm… it is most certainly the eyes. It is that piercing stare," says Elladan, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Could you not soften your gaze a little,  _mellon?"_

"Ay, be a gentle lady, now. Not such a gimlet-eyed termagant," says Elrohir with a grin.

"Bestow upon us a gaze soft as spring blossoms… come, try it…" coaxes Lindir.

"Ay, sweetness, you should refrain from staring at people as though they are insects or lackwits _… there it is!_   _You are doing it! You are doing it right now!_ " cries Elrohir, shrivelling with great drama under her malevolent glare. " _Ai,_  if looks could kill!"

Glorfindel bursts out laughing, and reaches out to stroke her raven hair. " _Melda,_ you played the part of the demure maiden so well when you first came to Imladris. Surely you can do so again?"

"Though I despised it then and I abhor it now, I can do it. But I will  _not_  do it right now, not when commanded to like a performing dog."

"We are only trying to help," says Lindir meekly.

"I know,  _mellyn_. I am grateful. Forgive my ill humour." She is almost as uncomfortable aboard a ship as a dwarf, and growing heavier with child and sleeping rarely has not helped.

"We shall meet few people along our way, if all goes well," says Glorfindel to the others. "We plan to keep away from the cities and towns, and travel straight through the Calacirya and south to the great forests."

"You will need to take ship from Tol Eressëa to the mainland," says Erestor.

"A small fishing vessel manned by Teleri who have never been to Ennor? That should be easy enough to find and will pose no difficulty. It is travelling on the roads past Tirion that may be trickier."

As Círdan approaches, they change the subject.

"Anyone for a game of cards or chess?" says Elrohir brightly.

"As long as it is not with Celeborn. He never loses," grumbles Erestor.

Then, they all pause, and gaze at the horizon ahead. Or where the horizon had been, a moment past. Swirls of rainbow light dance before the ship, and a sound like a rushing wind begins to rise, and swells till they can barely hear themselves think.

All the elves on board stare mesmerized at the glow that beckons to them. And as the ship flies towards the portal of light, they each murmur a fervent prayer.

 

The king stands at the window watching the winds ruffle the treetops of the red-gold woods. He stirs himself out of his reverie, realizing he must have been lost in thought for hours.

He turns back to look at the table. On it, letters and a pouch from Imladris. A letter of farewell and counsel from his uncle, who has decided at last to journey west. In the pouch, a dozen white jewels of surpassing beauty, shimmering with rainbow light, crafted by a young  _ellon_  as his farewell gift to the king he once served.

Next to these, a long leather cylinder brought north by elves who have returned to live once again in the Forest of Greenleaves.

Thranduil opens it, and pulls out the large scrolls of ivory-hued parchment that are rolled up within. Sea charts. Blueprints for shipbuilding. He gazes at them thoughtfully. Then rolls them up and returns them to the leather cylinder.

It is time for the autumn feasts in the woods. He lays the scrolls in their leather case before his son's portrait.

He takes up his crown of russet leaves and red autumn berries, sets it upon his head, and leaves his chamber to join his people.

 

He stays by her side throughout the winter, through sun and rain, and for her he lays aside songs of woe.

From his lips come all the songs of childhood he once sang to a young pair of twins. He hears the clash of swords in the Havens, remembers the nightmares that woke them—and him—in the nights. He remembers the feel of small bodies pressed against his as he awakens to find they have crawled yet again into his bed, fearful of monsters in their own room. How innocent they had been of the true monster that he was, fair of face but black of soul. How touchingly they had gripped his hand for comfort, that had shed the blood of their kindred.

As he sings the old, familiar songs he remembers yet other children. His younger brothers as he sang to them. Himself, as his mother sang to him. He would have wept for the loss and doom of all those children, but he has no tears left to shed. No more than she… he sees her own memories flit across her face, sometimes a smile, then a frown. Her lips move in silent conversations with people unseen. Sometimes, she seems to shake with weeping, but her eyes now remain as dry as his own.

As the nights grow cold, he takes a cloak from the oiled-leather pack, that one of the peredhel twins had contributed to it.

The wanderer now lays the new dark-grey cloak over Arwen. As weeks pass, her breaths grow shallower. He gently strokes the once-raven hair as he sits by her, and he softly sings, weaving a spell of such beauty and comfort with his music that her face is serene, even as each breath becomes a struggle.

She speaks only once more, as the first buds appear on the mellyrn, and leaves of gold begin to fall. He barely makes out the words.

_"Estel… tolen…"_

Her face in death is young and radiant, all lines of grief smoothed away.

He buries her where she lies, her brother's cloak her shroud. He raises a shallow mound of earth over her, and scatters early-blooming niphredil over the grave. He then finds a grey stone, and with Maeglin's blade he takes his time to chisel letters upon it. As he does so, he remembers his mother's hands on his as she had taught him, his hands almost too small then to hold the tools.

Golden leaves fall in the empty woods as spring comes. They flutter onto the mound and upon the stone he has left to mark the grave.

She was neither Queen nor Evenstar of her people to him, so on the grey stone the wanderer has chiselled, in the ancient classical mode of Tengwar:

_Arwen Elrondiel._

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Arimelda (Q) – dearest

Eca (Q) – sod off (or even ruder than that)

Tolen (S) – I come

* * *

_I shouldn't be writing. I have a mountain of work staring at me... I'll work double-time after this to make up for it! Apologies if this is rough. I might polish it sometime later, or add more scenes._

 


	36. Arrival

Maeglin chewed on a dried apricot rather stoically as she sat on the deck of the ship. Glorfindel lay at her side, his arms behind his head, gazing up at the night sky. Blazing with cold, white fire, Menelmacar the Swordsman strode across the star-strewn heavens above them, accompanied by his glittering hounds of war, and gazed back down at them.

The elflord turned his golden head and looked up at his beloved.

“Would you prefer I get you some stewed peaches instead, _melmenya?_ Or some nuts? _”_

She shook her head. “This will do.” She dutifully popped the last apricot in her mouth, and smothered a sigh. “I never thought I could so crave a fresh apple.” Their sea diet had been fresh fish, smoked meats, preserves, dried fruits, nuts, and elven waybreads and honey cakes. All highly palatable, as all elvish food is, but two months of it had left her yearning for juicy fruit… and she found herself thinking wistfully of a crisp, green salad.

He smiled, looking more luminous and relaxed than he had for many decades. “It will not be long now. Then you may have all the fresh berries and apples your heart desires.”

The moment their swift ship had soared free from the Bent World, Glorfindel had felt a sudden lightness as the oppression of a century lifted… and a thousand ghostly voices were suddenly silenced. From that moment, he had been so incandescently happy and alive with his restored lightness of being that he could barely sleep. Haunted by wakefulness herself as the child grew heavy within her, Maeglin spent the nights with him mostly on deck. He would sometimes climb the masts, singing blithely, but mostly he kept her company on the deck, walking, talking, and star-gazing. If she wearied, the mariners of Mithlond would lay down three soft layers of matting near the ship’s prow for them. Lying there, the two lovers would gaze at the beauties unfurled in the skies above them, just as they had one night long ago in Gondolin.

Maeglin slowly lowered herself down now to lie at her warrior’s side, and eyed the starry warrior shimmering in the dark sky above her. _His_ constellation, Glorfindel always called the Swordsman, with a smile. But in her current dark mood Maeglin was inclined to see the sword of stars hanging over her as ominous.

“Look—Erestor with itching powder down his back,” said Glorfindel, leaning his head against hers, and pointing at a group of stars to the east.

She chuckled softly. “Thranduil with baby Arman clinging to his shin,” she said, pointing at another pattern of stars more to the north.

Over the years, their stargazing had grown less and less scholarly. The whimsy of lovers had mostly replaced erudition, and over two centuries they had made the skies their own, the patterns above them reshaped to their lives. New constellations were coined: an anvil and hammer, the seventh gate of Gondolin, an elfhorse named Asfaloth, a defeated balrog stomped into the dust, Legolas shooting a spider with his bow, Mithrandir with his staff and fireworks, Bilbo with a teapot, Lindir with his lute, a baby soon to be born…

Two venerable, silver-haired figures suddenly loomed tall over the lovers, amused by their celestial flights of fancy, and the pair fell silent, embarrassed.

“Arise and cast your eyes upon the horizon, _mellyn_ ,” said silver-bearded Círdan, “ _Alae Aman! Na vedui!”_

Glorfindel pulled his wife and her swollen belly to her feet, and the lovers saw the vast land mass looming on the horizon—a long black shape against the sky of stars. His heart leapt. Hers skipped a beat.

At their side, the ancient silver-haired ones gazed at the blessed shores—the end of a Great Journey that had begun tens of millennia before at Cuiviénen, in the age of stars. One had turned aside for devotion to a king, the other had denied his heart’s longing in obedience to the Valar. And both, at last, were here.

Sharp elven eyes discerned, even at that distance, a large island off the coast of the great continent, sprinkled with yellow lights like tiny stars. Beyond it, a cleft in a mountain range from which a brilliant beacon of white-gold light shone out to sea. To the left, along the long mountain range, a single mountain soared skywards, impossibly tall, its peak of eternal snows gleaming in starlight.

“We will be mooring in the harbour in the dead of the night,” Glorfindel murmured to her. “I should be able to arrange our passage to the mainland before dawn.”

“I have had enough of ships for a lifetime,” she muttered.

“Tol Eressëa is swarming with exiles from Beleriand, love. The sooner we get off it the better, and the only way is over the straits. And the fastest way is by ship from Avallonë—unless a friendly eagle offers us a ride.”

She went slightly green, although she had thought herself cured of her fear of heights. He read her mind and smiled. “A ship it is, then. A four-hour crossing if the sailboat be swift, eight days to travel through the Calacirya, then three weeks south to Oromë’s stronghold. And then,”—a tender kiss—“time for baby.”

“How are you _so sure_ the vala would welcome me?”

“As I have told you again and again—Oromë loves me, and loves your Amil. And you are a child of the forest, born and bred! What is there for him not to love?”

 _I am wholly unlike you or my Amil, for one._ But she kept quiet.

Over the next two hours, all the other passengers gathered on deck, anticipation and elation mingling with the thrill of the unknown. Already they felt the difference—all their senses felt intensely alive, and there was a lightness of both body and spirit they had not known in Ennor. They sang and laughed in exhilaration as Avallonë on Tol Eressëa rose before them. Golden and white lights winked at them from hillsides that gently sloped up from the sea. Their ship pulled into the harbour, gliding towards a long wharf where a dozen graceful ships, white and grey, were berthed alongside smaller vessels. Then it slid smoothly into an empty berth as though guided by Uinen herself. Along the waterfront were white buildings with graceful arches, and between them streets paved with shimmering stones that led into the city.

Elves and elf horses lost no time in disembarking. They milled around the wharf, orderly and purposeful, organizing belongings. Once all was in readiness, the excitement was tinged with sadness. Partings were imminent… or would have been, had Glorfindel been able to find a single Telerin sailor to talk to.

“Where _is_ everybody?” wondered Glorfindel, as he surveyed the deserted wharf. The waterfront and hillslopes sparkled with soft lights white and golden… and yet, apart from the crew and passengers of the newly-berthed ship, there was not a soul in sight. “The Teleri sail and fish at all hours of the night,” said Glorfindel, baffled. _And sing.._. but now there was only the sound of wind and waves and their own voices.

“There seems to be an inn yonder where all of us may stay the night.” Elladan pointed at a sign in the distance, next to which glowed a lantern.

“If there is anyone there, that is,” Erestor murmured dubiously.

“Well, you obviously cannot find a ship to take you anywhere tonight, so remain with us!” Elrohir urged Glorfindel’s family. “Together we can seek out _Adar_ and _Naneth_ tomorrow.”

“Indeed, I should think Lord Elrond would be rather miffed if you vanished without so much as a _suilad_ , Glorfindel,” Erestor said reprovingly.

But the golden-haired lord, still deep in thought, was only half-listening. “Could it be… Ulmo’s Day?”

“Ulmo’s Day is in _Gwirith!_ It is but _Hithui_ now,” Maeglin pointed out.

“The calendar of Aman differs, for there is no winter here. It would explain why there is no soul in sight. For that festival, all on the island would be gathered along the Falassë Númea, on the western shores of the islands. That is fifty leagues to the west.”

"How long are the celebrations?" asked one of the crew.

"A week or more." Glorfindel did his calculations. "It should have just begun."

All the elves of the Havens were looking wistful.

Galdor of the Havens’ blue-green eyes were thoughtful. “Is there a harbour on the western shores where we might berth?”

“No—there was only Sívelondë at the mouth of Liltanen, when I was last here,” said Glorfindel. “Its waters are too shallow for vessels as large as yours.”

“Ah, pity,” sighed the lean, lanky mariner.

“We could anchor off the coast and launch the rowboat,” said Círdan.

“Or… we might borrow another ship, my lord,” said Galdor, his eyes sparkling as he eyed a sleek, silver beauty, twenty rangar long, bobbing on the waves close to their great ship.

“Borrow a ship from the Teleri? Has someone forgotten his history?” asked Erestor, eyebrows raised.

But all sixteen elves of Mithlond were gathering on the wharf before the pretty silver ship.

“Ah, but this would be _Teleri_ borrowing from Teleri,” replied Círdan. “We should speak the same language to our ships, and sing the same wave-song and wind-song. And we but seek to sail fifty leagues to Sívelondë to be reunited at long last with our kin.”

Already the mariners were stroking the bow of the silver ship and crooning gently to it as one might to a horse one sought to tame.

“She says _yes!”_ Galdor said exultantly, as he and the elves of the Havens lightly leapt on board.

“If your household would join us, we will engage another ship,” said Círdan to Elladan and Elrohir.

The elves of Imladris were looking at each other uncertainly when they heard the light sound of hooves on stone, not far away. The ears of the Imladrim elf horses pricked forward as they stood by.

“Four riders,” said Glorfindel softly.

As the light clop of hooves from a side street drew closer, Maeglin pulled up the hood of her cloak, and friends and family drew around her to block her from view, just as four noble steeds burst into view, their riders’ cloaks streaming behind them. Their hair gleamed in the lights of the waterfront, dark and silver and bright, glorious gold. Shouts of joy burst forth from the travellers.

Glorfindel laughed exuberantly. “A welcoming party! Of course there would be one!” And he turned to look at his uncle. The silver-haired lord was smiling as his lady approached. They must have been speaking to each other since the ship passed through the treacherous chain of enchanted isles eight hours past.

As the riders dismounted, the travellers surged forward to engulf Elrond and Celebrían, their sons at the front. Celeborn and his Lady calmly walked up to each other and clasped hands, gently touching foreheads together. The fourth personage in the welcoming party leaned against his silvery-grey horse and watched the happy chaos with a smile. He was no taller than Elrond and wore a long silver and green robe. His face was smooth and ageless and merry, his eyes brighter than any _edhel’s_ , and his white hair and full beard shone like Tilion. It was Glorfindel who, with a cry of recognition, went running to him.

 _“Maedol a mae g’ovannen,_ Glorfindel!” said the fourth rider. “Welcome home, _mellon iaur!”_

“ _Ai!_ _mae g’ovannen,_ Olórin!” cried Glorfindel, embracing him. “You decided to keep the beard?”

“I have grown too used to it. I tried to do without it for a year, but it felt as though something was missing,” said the maia, stroking the silver beard fondly. “Estë and Irmo balked at it to begin with, but now they think it gives me character.”

“Where are the Teleri? We wish to sail to the mainland as soon as possible. There are too many exiles here.”

“Tonight is not a night you could find any passage to the mainland, I am afraid. It is the eve of Ulmo’s Day. All the people of Tol Eressëa have gathered on the western shores for the celebrations… and Turgon and Voronwë are among them to honour Ulmo. They will be feasting and making merry for the next week.”

 _Turgon… a very good reason for us not to venture anywhere near the Falassë Númea,_ Maeglin and Glorfindel thought as one.

“I could sail a ship myself,” Glorfindel said, eyeing a white vessel nearby. “Mayhap I could find a ship willing to bear us, and pay a kind soul on the other shore to sail it back.”

“It is not on Tol Eressëa alone that you may wish to be wary, _mellon vuin,”_ said Elrond as he came forward and clasped Glorfindel’s hand in greeting. “Whilst on this island dwell many exiles who have sailed from Ennor, on the mainland are a great number who have returned from Mandos.”

“And it is hard to travel fast or in secrecy with a wife as advanced in pregnancy as yours. Be our guests for a season, _mellon iaur,_ ” said Celebrían as she embraced Glorfindel and kissed his cheek. “At our new homely house.” And she turned to take Maeglin’s hand in friendship.

So they fondly bade _galu_ to Círdan and the elves of Mithlond, who were singing with gladness as they sailed further west to Sívelondë in their borrowed ship. Celeborn kissed his daughter lovingly, then turned back to his lady. He and Galadriel, lost in their own world, walked away arm-in-arm along the waterfront, their two horses trailing after them.

The other elves and horses—and their heavy-laden wagons—proceeded up streets lined by trees whose flowers and fruits glowed in all colours of the rainbow, up the hillside, past the graceful arches and columns of buildings and houses great and small.

And at last they saw the golden glow of windows in Elrond and Celebrían’s fair mansion, high on the hills overlooking sea and city and harbour. Running out of the great double doors were half a dozen familiar figures from Imladris who had left the festival with their lord and lady to make the house ready for the newcomers.

Amid the loud, happy chaos of greetings and reunions, even as he was almost knocked over by the ecstatic welcome of Beril and Emlindir, Glorfindel’s sharp ears caught Gwendir saying to Elrond, “…the Lady Idril arrived just before you, my lord—and she has asked to see Glorfindel at once. And alone.”

Glorfindel whirled around at that, and his heart leapt and lifted with joy and yearning for one moment— _Itarillë! Ammë!_ —then sank with dismay as his eyes met Elrond’s. The peredhel was looking deeply perturbed.

Elrond pulled Glorfindel aside, and the two friends put their heads close together and conferred.

“This was highly unexpected,” muttered Elrond. “How could she have known? She should have been at the festival with her father and all the others. Unless she saw us departing in such haste, and followed.”

“She and Lómiel must not meet each other!” Glorfindel had planned to seek out Idril—and then Finrod—alone, and most secretly, once Maeglin and the baby were safe and settled. “So… you have spoken to her?”

Elrond’s face was glum. “I have indeed.”

Glorfindel paled. “That bad?”

“She is convinced we have all been bewitched. There is naught I can say that will make her think kindly of Lómiel. And she forbade me to say aught to my Adar. She wants to ‘settle it’ herself.”

“What does that mean—‘settle it’?”

“She will not say. And I thought Galadriel was formidable!”

Glorfindel’s brow furrowed. He knew his sweet, tender Amil could be a force of nature when provoked. And nothing provoked her more than a child of hers in danger.

“Elrond, could you hide Lómiel upstairs? Perhaps sneak her into the house by a different entrance?”

“Gwendir, where is Lady Idril now?” Elrond asked the elf who stood nearby.

“She awaits Glorfindel on the terrace of the great hall, Lord Elrond,” replied Gwendir, now a merry-eyed _ellon_.

“Good.” Elrond turned and spoke quietly into Glorfindel’s ear. “Keep her on the terrace.”

“Allow me to show you the way,” said Gwendir with a grin to Glorfindel.

The main doors of the mansion opened to a high-ceiled foyer crowned with a glass dome. To the right, a wide, grand staircase swept upwards in a graceful curve. But they turned left, and passed through a great double door into a hall almost as large as the Hall of Fire. And as they crossed the hall, Glorfindel saw her standing on the terrace looking out to the sea.

As Gwendir turned to leave, Glorfindel said softly, “Please close the door of the hall behind you, Gwendir.”

He walked through the open arches fronting the terraces and gardens for the reunion he had looked forward to for five millennia.

Standing in the golden light of the terrace, her golden hair flowing light and bright down her back to her knees, her silver-blue dress gracefully draping her slender curves, was the daughter of Turgon. She stood on the terrace under fragrant, blossoming trees and next to tinkling fountains, gazing down at the harbour and at the expanse of the ocean stretching to infinity. The echoing roll of the waves resounded in the distance. In her hair, at the back of her head, he saw the moonstone she so often used as a hair clasp. The one he had given to her when a child. She turned. The troubled frown on her lovely face melted away when she saw him, standing tall in the doorway, the radiant warmth of his deep golden hair and his smile as she remembered.

 _“Aiya, Ammë!”_ He walked towards her with his lithe, lionesque grace, and her face lit like the sun emerging from behind clouds, and her eyes misted over with tears.

“ _Ai_ … _yonya!_ ” She ran to him and threw herself into his arms, half-laughing, half-crying, and he lifted her off the floor as he hugged her. “ _Amatúlya_ …” And for a long while they did not speak, but simply held each other tightly. At last, he set her down gently and released her from his hug. She stepped back to look at him, her hand lifting to his face.

“ _Pitya_ , how _thin_ you have grown! You feel like skin and bones. Does not your wi—does _no one_ feed you properly?”

 _Only a mother…_ thought Glorfindel. His tall, willowy frame was but a shade leaner than it had been when he embarked on the white ship to Ennor over five millennia past. He laughed. “All my own fault, _Ammë_. I have not been eating much… but why is too long and tiresome a tale. I have missed you so! Is all well with you?”

“Well enough.” She wiped a tear from her eye as her other hand reached for his right hand, then looked down at the golden ring on it. An awkward silence fell.

“What an extraordinary ring,” she said, touching the beautiful thing as it glowed luminously on his forefinger.

“Yes, is it not? I am wed, _Ammë_ ,” he said a little too cheerily. “And I have sons.”

“So I have heard.”

Idril’s penetrating grey eyes were scrutinizing his face again, and looking deep into his eyes. She hissed, and her eyes narrowed. “I see that a shadow lies upon you, _yonya.”_ On her face, the same steely expression he had seen on the secret way of escape. “It is as I feared.”

Glorfindel’s heart sank. He should have known his mother would detect those last vestiges of shadow, that stain of crimson _atani_ blood on his _fëa_ , which no one else but Maeglin seemed to see.

He knew he would have felt far less dread facing the balrog and Sauron and all the Nazgûl at one and the same time.

 

At the front of the house, a stream of chatter and laughter continued as the elves swiftly unloaded wagons and carried belongings into the house. Maeglin stood by Asfaloth and Gilroch, forbidden by any to lift a bag or box of any weight. As Beril and Emlindir began to lead the horses to the stables, she made to follow them but was intercepted by Elrond and Celebrían.

“Lómiel, dear girl, Beril and Emlindir can take care of the horses,” said Elrond. “Come—an _elleth_ in your advanced state needs _much_ rest.”

“Indeed, child, the journey must have exhausted you,” Celebrían chimed in.

“Not that greatly, _híril-nín._ This is naught compared to bearing twins, as you would understand well.” And the vitality of Aman had much refreshed her since she landed.

Celebrían smiled at her as they exchanged understanding looks.

 “I cannot believe Glorfindel left Asfaloth standing here.” Maeglin glanced at the white horse, who was looking unruffled by his rider’s negligence.

“True, he always settles Asfaloth in the stables himself,” agreed Beril, surprised.

“Ah, he must have gone ahead into the house to see that all is in readiness for you,” said Celebrían lightly. “Come, I shall show you your room.”

At that, the white stallion nickered softly and his muzzle nudged Maeglin in the back between the shoulder blades, pushing her gently towards the house.

Elrond smiled. “You see? Asfaloth agrees you need your rest.”

“They are in good hands, fear not!” called out Beril as he led Asfaloth and Gilroch away.

So Maeglin followed Celebrían and Elrond into the house. She looked around the large, stone-floored foyer and the high dome above. Glorfindel was not responding as her _fëa_ sought his, and she felt a deepening disquiet. One of the chefs of Imladris, Marinnel, hailed her cheerfully. She had been busy the past hour preparing food for the new arrivals.

“Another _cram_ in the oven! Blessed fruitfulness!” Marinnel cooed as she came forward beaming warmly. “And is the mother-to-be not peckish after the voyage?”

Maeglin realized suddenly how hungry she was. “Famished,” she said. “Have you any fruits? Fresh fruits.”

“Of course! All year round. And I have fresh-baked pastries as well, savoury and sweet. Come, _mellon-nín_. Let me feed you.”

And Celebrían and Elrond, who had been momentarily distracted by Erestor who was asking where all his books might go, turned to see Marinnel leading Maeglin into the great hall, at one end of which the kitchens and smaller dining parlours lay.

“Marinnel! We shall have a tray brought to Lómiel in her room,” said Celebrían hastily, striding over with Elrond.

“Lómiel, pray go to your room first to rest,” Elrond insisted.

“A little later—I shall have just a bite first,” said Maeglin over her shoulder as she stepped into the hall. Then a treacherous little sea breeze wafted in from the garden terrace, carrying into the great hall two voices speaking Quenya.

“— _Ammë_ , you desired me to find one to love, and I have! I love her—so much—”

 “—thousands of maidens in Arda with pure hearts and clean hands… why _that one? Why?”_ Idril’s lilting, lamenting voice carried in with a clarity that made Elrond and Celebrían cringe. Maeglin froze like a statue at the sound of that all-too-familiar voice.

“—one steeped in the blood of our friends—our people—your own blood—”

 “— _Ammë_ , please—” Glorfindel could barely get a word in.

 “—never did I think to see such a _shadow_ in your eyes, to see my beautiful, bright sun so dimmed!—”

“—I can explain—this has _nothing_ to do with her—”

“—you _know_ what _he_ is! _What he did!_ In your right mind you would _never_ —”

“— _Ammë_ , there was a _war_ —I slew _atani_ —”

Idril almost choked in horror. “Worse and worse! There is black sorcery in this. Even so did that vile sorcerer father of his ensnare Irissë—”

“—I am _not_ bespelled!—”

“—oh my poor boy! You have been so _blinded!_ An annulment. That is the solution—”

“— _annulment?!_ We _love_ each other! We have _children!_ —”

“—I shall appeal to Manwë. I shall _not_ rest till you are free and yourself again—”

The traitor of Gondolin’s face was deathly white and terrible to see. Elrond and Celebrían had both turned rather pale themselves.

“—and that monster’s true nature is exposed—”

Maeglin turned, ran past the lord and lady of the house, and fled back into the foyer. Considering the heaviness of the child she bore, she moved with such surprising swiftness that neither Celebrían nor Elrond could do anything to stop her. Marinnel, who had understood little of anything Idril or Glorfindel had said merely blinked in utter bewilderment, her face blank.

“—as I should have exposed him long before—”

The Imladrim were startled to see Maeglin racing across the foyer, past piles of bags and boxes, and heading towards the door. Then they heard the tirade in Quenya coming through the open door of the great hall.

“—I have never ceased to regret my pity and my silence—”

“Lómiel!” cried Elladan.

 _“Daro!”_ shouted Elrohir.

Out on the terrace, the princess’s voice still rose and swelled. “—I still dream of Eärendil dangling over the precipice—”

“ _Ammë!_ ” Maeglin’s sons came running down the stairs with several others.

 “Lómiel! Dear girl!”

“—I still dream of you broken and dead in my arms—”

“ _Daro!_ Where are you going, _mellon?”_

As Maeglin touched a handle of the great double door, it flashed with white sparks, and she yelped and jumped back. “Bloody _muk!”_ she swore, more shocked than hurt. Grim-faced and resolute, she reached for the door handle again—and was blocked by a tall, silver maia, who suddenly grew tall and wide and shone with power.

“And where do you think to go, my dear girl?” asked Olórin as he looked down at the white, strained face below him.

“Out of my way, you bloody maia,” she snarled through her teeth, “or by Tulkas the Strong, there will be violence in Aman once again.” Her black eyes flashed with golden fire and her hands curled into fists.

Elrond and his twins and eight others just from the ship ran towards Maeglin and formed a half-circle around her.

“Dear girl! You cannot fight a fifteen-foot tall maia!” protested Erestor.

“Oh? Watch me!” replied Fingolfin’s grandchild, slamming her fist into the maia’s knee.

“Not bad,” said Olórin, eyes twinkling.

“ _Ammë,_ please!—don’t!” begged Arman.

“Back off, _yonya!_ And all of you!”

“Lómiel! Calm down!” commanded Elrond.

“I’ll blacken the eye of any that lays a finger on me, regardless I love them.”

“You would not!” exclaimed Lindir.

Scattered around the foyer and along the great stairs, the rest of the Imladrim watched the group huddled at the great doors. They listened to the pandemonium of voices in both Sindarin and Quenya with great bemusement.

“ _Mellon-nín_ , do you have any idea what is going on?” asked Beril, who had returned from the stables by another door.

“None whatsoever,” said Gwendir, shaking his head.

“Emotionally unstable, these pregnant _ellith_ ,” Emlindir observed.

“Lómiel, it will be all right—you have us on your side,” Elladan was saying.

“We will stand by you all the way!” affirmed Elrohir.

“ _Ego!!_ Let me out!” She pounded the maia’s legs with her fists, then stomped on his foot viciously with her full weight.

“ _Ouch_. I felt _that_ one.” Olórin silently shape-shifted and encircled the furious _elleth_ with two great white wings.

“Let me go, you sodding maia!” she cried out desperately. “Damn you!”

“Now, now,” the maia of Lórien boomed gently in a resonant voice like that of the ocean. “Stop struggling. You’ll hurt yourself.”

Arms pinned to her sides, Maeglin gave up the fight, but her bitterness poured forth in words. “Why? Why bring me back at all? For _this?_ Was it retribution? A sick joke? Why not keep me in the halls till the last battle? Eru should have left me there. Left me to rot with Fëanáro and his sons.” Thankfully, as she spoke in Quenya and her Avarin accent became strong whenever she grew emotional, most of the former Imladrim who were fast gathering to observe the drama understood only about one word in six.

Glorfindel pushed past the others, looking distraught, his face almost as pale as Maeglin’s. “ _Vesseya—”_

Olórin folded back the white wings and stepped aside for the golden lord.

“No! Do not touch me! I should never have come!”

“Shush, _melimë_. We shall see this through,” Glorfindel said, holding her tightly to him. “It will be well.”

“Liar! You do not believe that. I _heard_ her!” Maeglin said in a voice smothered against his chest.

Idril’s cold, crystalline voice came from behind them all. “Very well then. Where is… she?”

The Imladrim turned, and saw the daughter of Turgon gleaming like the first rays of morning, walking towards them with swan-like grace from the dining hall. Her glittering grey eyes were hard and guarded, and the expression on her lovely features stern. She walked as though the flowing silver-blue dress was a coat of chainmail and she held a sword in her hand. So grim was her sweet face that the murmuring crowd cleared a path before her.

As she walked, the princess was remembering the violation of the black prince’s hands on her as she had struggled with him. Remembering how Eärendil had been held over empty space as she had screamed and pleaded in vain. Remembering the prince’s pale face ugly with rage and malice… and how her skin had crawled with the pure evil and darkness she felt emanating from him.

Face pressed against Glorfindel’s chest, Maeglin trembled at the memory of Idril in her shining chainmail shirt, hair pulled back in a long braid, the sword shining in her hand, her eyes blazing with a ferocity the prince had not thought possible. Her stomach lurched in shame to remember all the prince had done… and all he had tried, but thankfully failed to do.

“ _Haruni_ , please,” Elrond said calmly, barring Idril’s way, two pairs of twins behind him. “She is my guest.”

“Step aside, _Indya_ ,” the princess said, her voice steel and silk.

“It is all right, Elrond,” said Glorfindel, coming forward. So Elrond and the twins parted, and let him pass through. The balrog slayer had his arm around the waist of an _elleth_ in a dark-blue dress and a dark-red cloak, and he was gently pulling her along with him. Her head was bowed, and all Idril saw was a silken curtain of black hair falling unbound over the _elleth’s_ face and past her hips.

Glorfindel gazed at Idril gravely, almost defiantly. He planted a kiss on the black head next to his, then spoke in a clear, calm voice. “ _Aranelya_ … _Amil…_ I have the pleasure of presenting to you my _vessë_... Lómiel.”

Slowly, the black-haired one lifted her head. A trembling white hand was raised to push back the curtain of hair. For a brief moment Idril might have thought she saw her aunt again—but she also saw the eyes.

Maeglin was shaking and weak as her heart pounded madly. For one of only a handful of times in two lives, she found herself powerless to school her face into the expressionless, impenetrable mask she so often raised as a shield against the world, powerless to hide behind her inscrutable, opaque glare. Her anguish was naked in her white face, and her eyes were wide as those of a startled doe, pools of black filled with hurt and shame. And fear.

And as Idril gazed into their depths, she saw that the obsidian eyes were clear. Clear and free of shadow, as even Glorfindel’s now were not. The hardness of the brilliant grey eyes began to melt away.

 _“Ai!”_ gasped Maeglin suddenly, as her child kicked strongly within her.

Idril’s eyes darted downwards. And widened at sight of the distended belly showing where the drapes of the wine-red cloak parted. Slender and strong white arms protectively wrapped around the bulge.

Then the princess of Gondolin smiled.

“ _Mai omentaina_ ,” she said clearly in her crystalline voice, so all could hear. “ _Amatúlya_. Welcome to Aman, chosen and beloved of my soul-son.”

A ripple of relief ran through the surrounding crowd.

 _Forgive me,_ Maeglin wanted to say, but her voice stuck. She cleared her throat. “ _Mai omentaina_ ,” she managed to reply, barely audible.

And Idril stepped forward and took her cousin’s hand in hers and looked at it—shapely, strong, calloused as a warrior and smith’s would be. But this hand had not wielded blade and hammer for over half a year, now, and the wrist and arm attached to it were more slender and feminine than they were wont to be. And Idril found herself unable to even think of the larger, more powerful hands that had once been laid on her, as she looked down at this almost delicate _nís_.

Yes, looked _down_. The former prince of Gondolin was now the slightly shorter of the two, and Maeglin flushed with embarrassment as she realized this as well, her cheeks rosy pink as she proudly drew herself to her full height.

At Imladris, she had once frowned discontentedly at herself in the mirror and complained to Glorfindel: “Why am I this short? Why could I not be as tall as my mother?”

Maeglin was in reality taller than the average _elleth_ , but resented falling short of Aredhel’s statuesque stature.

“’Tis your own fault,” he had replied unsympathetically as he sat on their bed oiling the leather of his boots with a cloth. “Slaving day and night in the smithy during your growing years, and not eating and resting as a young maiden ought to. You stunted yourself, my _naucanis_.” Then he had grinned radiantly and added, “But I like my _nolpaya_ just as she is—my petite little mole.” And he had laughed as he caught the stool she flung at his head.

The daughter of Turgon the tall was now looking down at her cousin’s furiously blushing face, and her smile widened—the closest thing to a smirk either Glorfindel or Maeglin had ever seen on her sweet face.

Then Baby kicked again, and Maeglin’s swollen belly bounced.

“A strong one!” said the princess. “When is your time… daughter?” The last word was said deliberately, emphatically.

“Another month,” Maeglin was able to articulate in a quiet, flat voice, after she recovered partially from her shock.

“Ah… then you are blessed indeed, my dear, that your extremities have no swelling,” said Idril, looking at the shapely hand lying in her own again and examining it. “And have you backaches?” This was said in the most solicitous of voices.

Dazed at how surreal this was, Maeglin could only nod dumbly. She thought she saw Elrohir smirking at the corner of her eye.

“Yes, I had those as well,” commiserated Idril. “A constant dull pain in the lower back, just _here_. I needed my dear Tuor to massage it every evening. Nothing helps as much as daily massages.”

“I do my duty as a husband, _Ammë_ ,” said Glorfindel, noting how Maeglin’s eyes flickered at the mention of Tuor. The warrior then shot a glare at Elrohir who was looking too amused at everything.

Idril bestowed a smile on her foster son, then continued speaking to Maeglin in that cosy, companionable tone of one woman who has found common ground with another. “I have some very good herbal recipes for warm compresses to apply if you need them… _anelya_ …” Again, _daughter._ “…you have but to ask.”

“You are kindness itself, _aranel_ ,” Maeglin intoned. _Just kill me,_ her mind screamed to Glorfindel’s. _I cannot take much more of this._

“Ah, but you must call me _amil.._. _anelya_. And I know of the most excellent midwife for you in Tirion,” Idril continued smoothly. “Just the one for you. It was she who delivered me when my own _amil_ was brought to bed. And it was she whom Nerdanel sought out to deliver each of her seven, mind you—”

Glorfindel saw Maeglin’s eyes begin to glaze over and went to the rescue.

“Itarillë, may I introduce our sons?” Glorfindel pushed forward the two young _néri_ who had been hovering at his side.

The twins bowed, then smiled uncertainly as they stood before Idril. “ _Mai omentaina, aranel,”_ they chorused.

“We are a little confused, _aranel_ —” Arman said shyly.

“—would you wish us to address you as _haruni_ —?” asked Aryo.

“—or, uhh… _aunt_ …?” faltered Arman hesitantly, in almost a whisper.

“Oh, _haruni_ most certainly!” said the princess with a luminous smile, all sweetness and joy as she released Maeglin’s hand. “Come here, _indyat!_ My beautiful grandsons!” And she enveloped them both in a hug and kissed their cheeks. “Your father should have sailed earlier! How greatly I longed to see you as babes!” Over their shoulders, she saw Elladan and Elrohir smiling at her in bemusement. “And you, my handsome ones, must be the true-blood descendants of my line,” she said, releasing the golden twins with a last hug. “How like to your father and to Elwing you are!”

And as Elrond and Celebrían moved forward with a smile and Idril was joyfully acquainted with her next generation of progeny, the balrog slayer grabbed hold of his beloved traitor’s hand, pushed through the crowd, and quietly escaped up the grand staircase with her.

 

They both sank upon the bed in relief, and sighed. Glorfindel stared at the ceiling. Maeglin lay on her side because of the baby’s weight, and stared vacantly at his golden hair.

After a while, Glorfindel rolled over to face her. “That did not go too badly, all things considered.”

“Not too badly?” she said in a hollow voice. “It was excruciating.”

“It could have been far, far worse, and you know it.”

“She wants us annulled. Is there such a thing?”

“Uhh… while we were in Lothlórien, Galadriel told me of a Noldorin pair in the Years of the Trees who got hopelessly drunk at a feast and woke up with an elfling on the way—and no recollection whatsoever of how they had wed. Quite the scandal. They stayed together for the elfling, and once she was of age, they had it annulled by the Valar and parted ways quite amicably.”

“And went on to marry others?”

“Apparently so.”

“Why would Galadriel tell you that? Was she hinting?”

“Not at all! You know Galadriel likes you. Perhaps she was warning me with her foresight about Idril.”

“Why did you never tell me of this?”

He looked abashed. “I was not perfectly certain you might not one day wish us annulled, if you thought drunkenness was… you know… grounds for parting ways.”

She reached out to stroke his cheek, and smiled. “And so you tell me only now, when you know I was neither drunk nor insensible, but desperately in love with you.”

“For years I had a whisper of fear within that, some day, you might run like your mother…”

“Had I wanted to, I would have fled whether there were grounds for annulment or none. And I imagine it was not _drunkenness_ that was grounds for that annulment.”

“True… it was that they loved each other not, nor over the years did love blossom. And neither recalled aught of being wedded.”  

She smiled wickedly. “Whereas we recall every moment and detail of _our_ wedding. _Ná?”_

 _“Ná.”_ He smiled lovingly back at her. “No one in Eä can annul us if we do not wish it. The Valar would never do it. Nor will Itarillë ever petition them. I saw it in her face as she spoke to you.”

“She neither likes nor trusts me. I saw _that_ in her face as she spoke to me.”

“She knew there is no evil in you once she saw you, _melimë_.”

“That does not mean she loves me. Or has forgiven me one whit. She will tolerate me, at best, for you and the children’s sake.  And she has clearly defined how she and I will relate to each other, henceforth. I am her _daughter_ , never her _cousin_. She will never acknowledge Lómion in me. Or speak of our past. And she need not fear. I will most certainly never remind her.”

“I saw the gleam in her eyes. She can hardly wait for the baby to be born.”

“Well, I am definitely _not_ raising our child with her scrutinizing my every move as a mother, from how I change diapers to how I carry and nurse a babe,” she growled. “I do not care how well she raised you and Eärendil. I am not having your _amil_ breathing down my neck and wanting things her way. The sooner we get away from here, the better.”

They lay quietly for a while, feeling the strangeness of it all. “To think that I once ever… wanted… _that_ … with Itarillë… it is unbelievable…” she muttered.

“So… you felt nothing of… what you once…?”

“Of course not. Another time, another _hröa_ , another person. It is all gone.”

He sighed and cradled her face in his hands. “I love you both. I believe she would love you once she understands how beautiful you are—and how good.” He used the words  _vanima_ and _manë_ ; inner beauty and goodness of the heart.

“ _Vanima_? _Manë?”_ she echoed mockingly. A delicate eyebrow lifted wryly. “I would laugh were I less weary. You besotted bastard. That must be the first time anyone has ever described me thus.” She took the hand that was stroking her face, and tenderly kissed his palm. “You are a completely biased and unreliable judge of character. You know that, don’t you?”

“How am I wrong?”

“Do my deeds not speak for themselves?”

“Your deeds in this life speak well enough of you. I know you to the depths of your _fëa_. Beneath the scowls and snarls, the glares and the cursing, you are _vanima_ and _manë._ And more.”

Still holding his hand, she closed her eyes. “If you do not know better than that by now, fool of a Flower, there is no hope for you.”

He did not argue the point. He moved over to the other side of the bed, massaged her back with long, gentle strokes till she slept. He lay by her side for a while and listened contentedly to her deep, even breathing. He gently kissed her tummy and smiled at his daughter’s lively response.

Kissing his beloved softly on the lips, he left the room quietly, and headed back downstairs.

* * *

_Glossary_

Alae Aman! Na vedui! (S) – Behold Aman! At last!

Maedol a mae g’ovannen (S) – Welcome and well met

Amatúlya (Q) – blessed arrival / welcome (singular)

Cram (S) - cake

Aranelya (Q) – my princess

Mai omentaina (Q) – well met

Naucanis (Q) – nauca = stunted/short/dwarf + nís = woman. The Quenya equivalent of Aragorn’s nickname _Naugwen_ for Maeglin

Nolpaya (Q) – little mole [thanks to dreamingfifi for the translation]

Anelya (Q) – my daughter

 

* * *

 

_Growl. It has been a nasty week at work with a major bungle on my part that I am furious with myself for… so I have sought refuge in writing as therapy before going back to the grind (to sort out the mess). Thanks lots for reading! I plan to wrap this story up by Chapter 40, so hopefully the loose ends will get wrapped up one by one. Galu, mellyn vuin!_


	37. Sea and Stars

Halfway down the staircase, Glorfindel paused at a landing.

From the sounds that rose up the stairwell, he could tell that the earlier tension of an hour past had been washed away with a flow of wine and food and music, and a welcome feast to rival any celebration of Ulmo’s Day was underway downstairs. He had only counted thirty-eight elves in all, including his own travelling party, but the revellers seemed to be singing loudly enough for a hundred.

He should have been desirous of nothing more than joining the merriment, but suddenly, he wanted a moment alone. Just to let it all sink it…

He turned and went back up the stairs, past the floor where his and Maeglin’s bedchamber lay, until he reached the roof. The glass dome of the house rose at its centre, and he found himself in a lush rooftop garden of flowers and shrubs and small tinkling fountains, through which paths of silver-white stone meandered.

Flowers bowed towards him as he passed, offering him their scent and colour. At the roof’s edge, he gazed down to his left at Avallonë—a hillside covered with buildings and villas sloping down to the harbour. The city had been a fifth this size, five millennia past. There had been a grove of mellyrn, he remembered, on the hilltop where this house now sat. He had come up here with Asfaloth to gaze east over the ocean towards Ennor, in the time before the world was bent…

And now he was back. Back in the land he had dreamed of for five thousand years. He had been happy in Ennor, for it had always been his gift to find joy and friendship wherever he went. But this… this was home.

_And I have returned with my duty done, and blessed with more love than I could ever have dreamed of… but yet I could not have imagined how beset with worries this homecoming would be. Nor that it would need be so secret._

His eyes scanned the vast and restless sea, then the skies above. From the position of the stars at this time of the year, he could tell it was past midnight. He then gazed down upon Elrond’s gardens. He saw gleams of three shades of gold in a grove. His sons and his foster mother were walking in the shadows of tall, slender trees on which snowy-white bell-like flowers bloomed, spilling their heady fragrance into the night. He climbed up onto the parapet that ran along the length of the roof and sat on it. He could hear Arman’s animated voice, and Idril’s light, silvery laugh.

Glorfindel smiled a little then sighed. His _Amil_. Never in his life had they ever been in conflict with each other as now. Never had any issue divided them, for they had been of one mind on all matters, including the excavation of the secret way. There had been that moment in the foyer when he had stood with Maeglin held at his side, and his eyes had met Idril’s, and she had _known_. Known how her son would choose—who he would choose—if mother sought to part hero from traitor.

And now this uneasy détente. He was glad Idril was speaking to the boys. She would discover what wonderful sons he and Maeglin had raised together. They would tell Idril of their mother, and the princess would surely see how false, how unfounded all her fears had been…

Peals of laughter from the stairs behind him. A couple stumbled out into the garden, kissing and groping each other. Gwendir and… Glorfindel peered for a while before he recognized the _elleth_ … Meluineth, another of Estel’s childhood companions. Breathless and giggling and probably fairly tipsy, the pair vanished behind some flowering shrubs.

Well, if they were not married yet, it looked as though they would be soon enough, thought Glorfindel. He escaped down the side of the building, the carvings in the stone offering him easy handholds and footholds.

There had been a secluded beach just below this hill and west of the harbour that had been one of his favourites, and he decided to see what changes five millennia had wrought. All that he had ever loved of the shores of Nevrast came back to him upon that beach. He swiftly moved down the south-western face of the hill by a narrow path, then a descent down a steep, rocky slope which he took with feet lighter and surer than those of a mountain goat. At the foot of the slope was a sheltered bay along which ran a pristine beach of pearlescent white sands that shimmered in the starlight, lapped by waves laced with white foam.

It had barely changed. He might have been gone for five years, not five millennia—such was the enchanted timelessness of Aman. He walked along the shoreline, his boots barely leaving prints in the soft sand. Sand gave way to rocks, and as he climbed over them, he espied one addition since he had last been here—a small jetty reaching out into the bay.

He walked to the end of the jetty, and lay down on it. The sea breeze kissed his face and played with his bright hair as he lifted his eyes to the vastness of the open sky above, alive and alight with the multitudinous stars in their millions and trillions. He felt as though he was falling among them, floating in an ocean of rainbow-hued splintered light.

_Ai, Varda Elentari…_

And he heard softly whispered in the star-song, _“Welcome home, child…”_

He could _feel_ the stars’ song and life humming through his _fëa_ and the very veins of his _hröa_. He closed his eyes a moment, letting the celestial harmonies cradle him a moment upon their flood, feeling his _fëa_ float like the foam of the tide washing against the shore. And all of a sudden he felt deep, deep within the dull throb of weariness and woundedness that he had unknowingly carried from his five millennia in the mortal lands, as a cliff is unaware of wind and sea wearing it down. And he felt the life of Aman begin to heal him…

He did not know how long he lay there in that half-trance, but suddenly he became aware that someone was _there_.

He opened his eyes and was stunned to see a strange _ellon_ standing over him and staring down at him.

The warrior reacted without thinking, and the next moment he had thrown the _ellon_ onto his back, and was kneeling astride him and holding him down.

The _ellon_ , not in the least fazed, gave a warm chuckle. “Valar! You are fast!” His voice was admiring and amused. The stranger was unremarkable in appearance, and dressed in a simple long, belted tunic over breeches and boots. Grey eyes. Hair the colour of ripe wheat. Typically Vanyarin features.

“I—I am so sorry,” Glorfindel stammered in his best Vanyarin Quenya as he pulled the stranger to his feet. “You startled me.”

Of all the kindred in Aman, the Vanyar were possibly the ones Glorfindel and Maeglin needed to worry the least about. They wished to stay as far as they could from the Noldor and Sindar of Gondolin, and they suspected the Falmari might mislike her Noldorin looks, but from the Vanyar they could expect naught but acceptance and hospitality. Tulkas, Eonwë and Glorfindel had not had an easy time turning the Vanyar into fighters for the War of Wrath. It had been such long ages since the First Ones had lifted weapons against the dark creatures and dangers of the Hither Lands, and they were such a peaceable people by nature, that moulding them into fierce warriors had been an uphill task.

Glorfindel had never seen this particular Vanya before.

“I feared you might be hurt,” the Vanya was saying. “Your eyes were _shut_.”

“I was… I was listening to the stars.”

“Ah,” the stranger nodded understandingly. “Star-dreaming. No wonder.”

Glorfindel was staring at the long, shining white sailboat that was now moored at the jetty.

Unbelievable, he thought… no elf should have been able to sneak up so close to him without his hearing or his sensing it, no matter how deep in star-song he had been lost… what more an elf with a _boat?_ And what was a _Vanya_ doing with a boat?

“Umm… this is yours, I assume?” the warrior asked as he admired the vessel. It could take no more than three sailors, and thus was of no use for the crossing he planned for his family, but it was beautifully built, sleek and graceful, and looked to be most swift.

The Vanya glanced fondly at the sailboat and nodded. “ _Ná_. Is she not a beauty? Her name is _Falmalírë._ ” _Wavesong_.

“I never knew of a Vanya who sailed before,” said Glorfindel.

“My mother is a Teler,” said the stranger with a smile.

“So is mine,” said Glorfindel, smiling in return.

“Do you sail, _heldo?_ ”

“Oh, yes!” Glorfindel’s face lit up.

“Well, come on, then!”

And in the twinkle of an eye, they were out upon the sea, and Glorfindel’s new friend watched with approval as the warrior set the sails with skill. The warrior laughed with delight and exhilaration as they rode the waves swiftly, and the wind whipped at their fair hair. He had seldom sailed during his years at Imladris, though he had brought his twins to Mithlond one summer when they were thirty, and taught them how to. The Vanya laughed as well, seeming to delight in Glorfindel’s joy, and for a while they simply revelled in the thrill of speed and the freedom and beauty of the open sea and sky.

“Tell me how you learned to sail,” said the Vanya.

And Glorfindel gaily told him of learning to sail at Vinyamar when he was tiny, and how excellent a teacher Ecthelion had been—“He is half-Teler as well”—and how much they had missed the sea when they moved inland. And the Vanya told in turn of learning as a child to sail from his mother and uncles at Alqualondë, and how idyllic and carefree those seasons by the sea had been.

“I sail whenever I can, nowadays, but too oft there is business that requires me to be situated either at Valmar or Tirion.”

“Whence came you, this night?” asked Glorfindel. “I thought all on the island would be at the Falassë Númea?”

“Oh, I was. But I needed to escape the crowd.”

“It was very large?”

 _“Ná_. And growing larger every hundred years. The celebration stretches all the way north to Eagle’s Claw now.”

Glorfindel gave a low whistle of disbelief. “Are the celebrations just as huge at Alqualondë?”

“Not so. The numbers here are swelled by the exiles, both Noldor and Sindar, and even by the Moriquendi who landed here over the Third Age of Endórë. It is a purely Falmarin affair, at Alqualondë. Only Arafinwë and some of his family attend it each year.”

“So… the hurt has not been forgiven.” Glorfindel’s face darkened.

The Vanya’s face was shadowed as well. “Not wholly, sad to say. Even now, when most of the slain have returned, and swanships yet fairer and swifter than those that perished fill the harbours of the Falmari and sail the sea.”

Glorfindel frowned slightly. “Have not Nolofinwë and his people sought to make peace?”

“The apologies have been tendered formally and publicly, and graciously accepted. But no Noldorin exile will find warm welcome at Alqualondë. Apart from Arafinwë’s children.” The Vanya tilted his head to one side and regarded Glorfindel gravely. “That distresses you?”

“It grieves me that unforgiveness should mar the blessed harmony of Aman,” Glorfindel replied. “I had hoped that surely in five thousand years those hurts could have been healed. Though the _quendi_ never forget, it is in our power to forgive.”

“It is indeed,” said the Vanya. “And in this lies the path to peace.”

“If only all would think as the Vanyar do...” Glorfindel muttered. Then in his heart he thought: _What do the Vanyar understand truly of the price of forgiveness? They who have known so little of betrayal or loss? It is his Telerin blood that can understand…_ “I wish all thought as you do.”

They sailed on in companionable silence. As they had spoken, they had sailed the ship together with an ease and harmony that was as natural as breathing. So comfortable and familiar was their interaction that it was only now that it struck Glorfindel that they had not even introduced themselves.

“I am Laurefindil, _heldo_.” Glorfindel had for one moment thought of giving another name, but deceit was not in his nature. “ _Eleni sílar lúmenn’ omentiengwó,”_ he added courteously.

The Vanya laughed at this sudden formality. “And I am… _Írehirmo_. The stars shine indeed on this meeting, _heldo_ , and your hair is indeed of a wondrous gold.” He gazed admiringly at the glorious tresses flowing in the wind, glowing with a radiance that rivalled the stars above. “Such a hue is not seen among the Vanyar save in the line of Ingwë. And even there, I have not seen such lustre.” He paused to adjust the sail of the ship as they tacked across the bay, before adding softly, “There is only one who has hair that could surpass yours, and she is of the line of Finwë.”

Glorfindel’s eyes had widened and his heart had begun to pound. As the other had spoken, his features had blurred and shifted, his hair had transformed into a bright, rich gold that shimmered luminously in the starlight, and his voice had grown more musical and resonant. His very frame grew taller, and his garments began to change as Glorfindel watched. The tunic was silk of a deep blue, embroidered with a pattern of leaves and birds in threads of silver and gold, and there was a silver circlet set with white gems on his brow. He radiated a calm, gentle power and inner stillness, a strength like the centre that holds at the eye of a storm. His face was now revealed to be of astonishing beauty, despite the faint silver marks that ran across it—the relics of a horrendous mauling in a previous life. His grey eyes shone with the light of the Trees, and they were lit with an incandescent warmth and love as they turned to rest upon the warrior. Their gaze ran like a shock through Glorfindel as even Lady Galadriel’s never had. It was the shock of knowledge. Of recognition.

“I came straight from Ulmo’s festivities,” Glorfindel’s companion said apologetically in exilic Quenya. “I had no time to change raiment, so it is well I was not in a long robe, which would have been less than ideal for sailing. Once Artanis told me that you would arrive tonight, Amárië and I would have joined her for the ride overland. Alas, most unfortunately Turukáno caught hold of us, and we could reveal naught to him. If he knew you were returned, he would most certainly have wished to come as well. To my dismay, he and Elenwë insisted on our company for the evening feast, and then volunteered us both as judges for a singing contest. I had no means of escape. I finally had my chance when Voronwë took him for a cruise up to Eagle’s Claw. Whilst Amárië distracted Elenwë and remained to keep her company, I lost myself in the crowd, slipped away to my sailboat at the wharf, then sailed here as fast as I could. Amárië is so incapable of lying, we agreed she should simply tell Turukáno and Elenwë the truth—that I have gone for a long, long sail…”

Glorfindel’s mind was completely blank. He discovered that he had been holding his breath and took a gulp of air into his lungs. He stared at the other with wide azure eyes. His lips parted but no sound came forth.

“Forgive me the disguise. It was not planned, but as you opened your eyes I… panicked.” And the one who had contended so mightily against Sauron with songs of power, and who had slain Sauron’s mighty _gaur_ with his bare hands and teeth, gave a disarmingly self-deprecating smile. “After five thousand years thinking of all I wanted to say to you, once you stirred I could not think of a single word!”

The words sank in. “Five thousand years?” Glorfindel whispered. “You knew?”

Finrod looked pensive. “The moment I laid eyes on you, I knew. As a ship took you away from me, to Endórë. I was too late. Forgive me, _yonya_. For not knowing earlier. For the manner of your birth. For being six-and-a-half thousand years late for your whole life.”

Tongue-tied and shy as an elfling, Glorfindel found his heart too full for his lips to utter a word.

_There is nothing to forgive. I know you were not to blame. All that matters is that you are here now. I regret nothing of the past. I am just glad to be your son._

Finrod’s face lit with joy and the warmth of a summer morning as his son’s thoughts tumbled into his mind. _And_ _I am so glad, so very glad and proud to be your father._ Then a shadow crossed his face and touched it with wistfulness. _But I will always regret all the days and seasons of your life I have missed, yonya._

At that, tears sprang to Glorfindel’s eyes, and he moved forward impulsively and wrapped his arms tightly around his father, almost capsizing the sailboat. They quickly balanced the vessel, exchanged another, more careful hug, then grinned at each other.

Finrod’s eyes sparkled. “Shall we get back to land, _yonya?”_

“All right, _Atar.”_

And at the sound of that word, the father thought his heart would burst for joy.

 

The early hours of the morning sped by as they walked along the shoreline beneath the stars, skipped stones across the waves, and talked. By some agreement of minds, they skirted the recent past and delved far back into their memories. Two childhoods by the sea. Two lives in two white cities set high on two hills. Alqualondë and Vinyamar. Tirion and Gondolin. As one tale led to another, they ended up swapping stories of their extensive travels in the Hither Lands, and found there was one place both had explored—the Ered Luin. That started them on dwarves. Glorfindel was delighted to hear that Gimli had found a new lease of life, and dwelled for a season with Aulë in his deep halls.

“I have always liked dwarrows, and occasionally they have liked me,” Glorfindel said, as he stopped by a rock pool to rinse off a beautiful conch he had picked up from the sand. “I managed to pick up a little Khuzdul even, but Lómiel laughs at my accent whenever I speak it. She learned hers from the Firebeards of Nogrod. She oft went there with her father, when a child.”

Finrod looked at his son thoughtfully. This was the first time in the four hours since they met that Glorfindel had mentioned his wife, and he did now with obvious pride and love in his voice. The warrior felt his father’s gaze, and studied the conch in his hand carefully.

“Did Lady Artanis tell you about Lómiel?”

“Yes,” said Finrod simply as they climbed some rocks above the rock pool. “And it would give me great joy to meet Irissë’s child, now my daughter. One so beloved to you will also be beloved to me.”

 “So… you have never spoken to Turukáno about me, or about Lómiel?” Glorfindel asked.

“Never,” said Finrod. “Apart from Artanis and Elrond and Itarillë, I have spoken of you and Lómiel only to Amárië, and no other.”

They sat atop the stack of rocks, gazed out across the starlit ocean, felt the wind and listened to the waves.

Glorfindel sighed. “I know that Lómiel and I are a problem.”

Finrod’s beautiful face was solemn. His glittering grey eyes were gentle as he held his son’s blue eyes with their gaze. “A problem?”

“I… I understand all the reasons why you should not acknowledge me. And I do not wish you to. I am… _úcarehína._ ” Glorfindel remembered the word whispered in the corridors of the palace at Vinyamar, in the marketplaces of Nevrast. A child’s first sense of shame. “And not only _úcarehína_ , but married to the traitor of Ondolindë. We have no wish to stain the honour of the House of Arafinwë, nor stir dissent or outrage among the Noldor. You are the Crown Prince, and your father the _Noldóran_.”

Finrod’s gaze did not falter. “I have no worries for my own honour,” he said calmly, “Though it is true I cannot be careless about the honour of my House or of my father. Yet I do wish to acknowledge you. I have always believed rumours should be met with openness and truth.”

“There will be no rumours if I am not seen at all. My beloved is… not a popular figure. Turukáno is your closest friend, and he would have no love for the nephew who betrayed him and ruined his city. Awkward would not begin to describe any meeting between them. It is best we both disappear.”

The grey eyes widened with shock. “That is no solution. Have I just found my son only to lose him again? And does Mandos release souls from his care only for them to hide in the shadows like vermin till the Second Music? No. If she was deemed ready to take up life again, she is worthy to live openly among the Eldar.”

“Well said, Prince Findaráto,” said a familiar voice. Two golden heads turned to see a silvery figure, shimmering in the starlight, sitting near them on the rocks.

“Olórin! So are the Valar, who sent Irissë’s child back among the living, prepared to justify her before the living?”

“They are,” replied the maia. “I think the real question is whether _she_ is prepared to be justified before the living.”

They turned to look at Glorfindel.

“The answer is no,” he said, quietly. “You are speaking of a public proclamation of the Valar that would draw to her the very attention and scrutiny she most dreads… And no matter how justified by the Valar she is, I fear it will not mean forgiveness from all the exiles. Itarillë is the most compassionate of souls, and has been to the Gardens of Estë, and yet she has not forgiven. I would not have my love bear the judgement of a hundred thousand Gondolindrim now.”

His father eyed him quizzically. “If not now, _yonya,_ then when?”

“Perhaps after our babe is born.”  _Perhaps never._

Finrod started with astonishment, then exclaimed with delight, “A babe? Another grandchild?”

“Yes, _Atar_. A girl, due in a month.”

Finrod was glowing with joy and excitement. “I pray you, reside in Taniquetil with Amárië and me for the birth of the child! It is peaceful and secluded where we are. None will disturb you.”

“If my Lómiel consents, we shall,” replied Glorfindel, smiling at the thought of Maeglin’s face at this invitation. She might prefer it to having the child under Idril’s scrutiny though…

“All her strength, _hröa_ and _fëa_ , is bound with the child now, and will be for the first years of the child’s life,” said Olórin.

“ _Ná,”_ agreed Finrod. “Quiet and peace in a place of refuge will be best for now. Too much disturbance will be bad for both mother and child.”

 “For a few _coranári_ at least,” said Glorfindel. “Five, perhaps ten. Then we shall speak of it once more.”

“And I shall wait till after that to present you as my son as well,” added Finrod.

Glorfindel looked apprehensive. “ _Atar_ … presenting me may truly not be wise.”

“If the Valar themselves have favoured and chosen you for millennia, _yonya_ , it can mean nothing that you are _úcarehína_. And if there was any ‘sin’, it was definitely not yours.”

“But that is the point! There is both your honour and my mother’s to think of.”

“Your mother has declined to return among the living, _yonya_. I am sorry,” said Finrod. “And her lord has chosen to remain with her in the Halls of the Dead.”

Glorfindel was silent for a while. He had thought so many times of all he might say to the _elleth_ who had given him life when he at last met her. It had ranged from “ _I forgive you”_ to “ _How could you have done that?”_ to a simple “ _Emel… I am your son.”_ There had been the fears of Oropher’s wrath, and worries of the scandal that would taint both the houses of Oropher and Finarfin should the secret be exposed. But stronger than that had been the simple desire to _know_ this mother of his, a chance to love her and thank her for his life, and for surrendering him to the world he had been privileged to inhabit. There had been a childlike yearning to at least hold her once, and be held by her, and call her _Naneth_.

And to have that taken away…

 _“Ai,”_ he sighed at last. “Perhaps… perhaps it is for the best. But what of your honour then? Even if you do not care about it, I do.” He remembered Thranduil’s slurs against his father. “I should hate it if ever it is whispered that you ravished or seduced my mother.”

“Have no fear, Glorfindel. I think none but the most foolish or malicious would ever believe Findaráto to be a deflowerer of innocent virgins,” chuckled Olórin. “And hopefully it would seem just as improbable that he had been drugged, bewitched, and seduced by a young maid.”

Finrod smiled with some amusement at the maia, and said nothing. But Glorfindel looked troubled still. “Then think of Amárië, _Atar_... might it not be wondered if you were not true to her, but took a wife in Endórë? And worse, that she is thus not your true wife?”

Finrod’s fair face grew grave. “You have voiced my greatest fear—that Amárië would suffer from such slurs. But those rumours will not stand scrutiny. There is no one who could produce this ‘wife from Endórë’. And the Valar themselves would uphold our marriage. As ever, truth will overcome falsehood.”

Glorfindel was so naturally optimistic himself that he _wanted_ to believe it would be as his father said… he was unprepared for the pain that suddenly lanced through his abdomen and caused him to wince.

Finrod had not seen the grimace, but he felt in his _fëa_ his son’s spasm of pain, and turned his head to see the azure eyes unfocused and dazed.

“ _Yonya_ , what is amiss? Are you hurt?” asked his father sharply.

“No… it is Lómiel,” murmured Glorfindel. “I must return at once.”

Leaping down from the rocks, he raced over the soft white sands like the wind, and vanished where the beach curved away behind the escarpment.

The maia and the prince exchanged a look, and swiftly followed.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Heldo (Q) – friend (male)

Eleni sílar lúmenn’ omentiengwó (Vanyarin Q) – the stars shine on the hour of our meeting (thanks to dreamingfifi of realelvish.proboards.com for help with the translation!)

Írehirmo (Q) – desire-finder / one who has found his desire (thanks to dreamingfifi again)

 

* * *

 

_Ummm... so, this is half of the original chapter, and I think the story may need more than 40 chapters to wrap up. I got stuck here and just wanted to post this little bit. Work is still hectic, but these little dips into fanfic are keeping me happy! As always, thanks for reading and let me know what you think..._

_Just adding a little note here on why I changed the Finrod-Glorfindel meeting the way I did. In the first version, there was no freaking out. Glorfindel runs out to meet Finrod when he sees him riding up. The balrog slayer is pretty nervous and is struck dumb with shyness, but Finrod is cool, perfectly relaxed even if a little frustrated at being so late (he comes to Elrond's house after the whole drama with Idril), and then he and Glorfindel have the Big Father-Son Hug.  
But I just didn't like it... it didn't feel real to me. I thought: Finrod is meeting a son to whom he is a stranger, who has lived 6,500+ years without him, and is a successful elf and hero in his own right. The more we have invested in a big emotional moment where we hope someone we meet will accept/love/like us, the more nervous we are likely to be. After this huge build-up for 5000 years, when the long-awaited moment finally came, I thought in Finrod's shoes I might freak out, be horrendously awkward, and say really stupid things. And I liked the idea that being a fearless warrior, mighty wizard, or powerful prince would not exempt him from being really human and vulnerable in his personal life. ;)_


	38. Close Encounters

I wake up hungry.

I am unsurprised to find Laurefindil’s side of the bed unslept in. What does surprise me is how well I have slept. It has been my best sleep in three months… by Aulë’s hammer, it might even have been the best sleep of my life. I am still dazzled by wondrous dreams… of flight without fear… of winterless lands radiant with splendour… and, most wondrous of all, of Aulë’s great halls where I work with light heart and bring forth from my anvil works of beauty and great cunning.

I stretch languidly, and find myself smiling as my daughter kicks and turns a half-somersault inside me. I feel… _free_.

It is still dark outside the windows. My eyes wander with awe and admiration over the grace and beauty of the chamber, which I had been in no mood to appreciate last night… the slender figures in flowing garments carved into the columns of translucent white stone, the flowers and leaves and graceful branches that adorn the cornices and the arches of the windows… and a strange thought flits through my head… _this house is not a copy of Imladris; it is the realization of all that Imladris ever sought to be…_

I arise and take a bath—a _proper_ bath, not a pathetic wash out of a small bucket below deck. Then, glowing with well-being, I feel more than equal to anything Aman could hurl at me. I pull on a teal-coloured dress I seldom wear—too bright, too many flowers on the skirts and sleeves. But my beloved likes it, and in my good mood I don it as befitting the new me. I admire myself in the looking glass. The dress is high-waisted and fitted at the bodice, the skirts skimming the swell of my belly. I have never seen such a lustre in my hair and eyes before, such a glow to my skin. Full of life and boundless strength, I am ready to scale Taniquetil, brave the worst of Itarillë. What is in the air of this place? I could liken it to being drowned in _urnen_. I do not feel like myself… or, perhaps, I am feeling more like myself than I ever have.

_You lovely creature. How could anyone suspect this face? Bring it on, Amil Itarillë. I can take you on today. I can take on anything._

As I descend the graceful curves of the spiral staircase, I recall last night. How tense I had been, how overwrought. I replay the events of our arrival in my mind, and the confrontation with Itarillë, and am amazed by how detached I feel. _Someday I shall look back on all this, and laugh._

In the great hall of the house, I smile sweetly at _ellyn_ and _ellith_ of the household as they ply me enthusiastically with a variety of nourishing foods and hot drinks, and ask many questions about our plans.

“When is the child due?”

“Will Glorfindel and you not stay here with us?”

“Where will you go?”

As I eat fresh nectarines and cherries—and oh, heavenly, the sweetest and most crisp of apples—I easily deflect the questions with a few noncommittal statements. The savoury pastries that follow are the most delicious I have ever eaten, the tea the most fragrant and flavourful I have ever drunk.

Much fortified and eager to find my beloved, I step out of the great front doors and into the cool morning air.

The harbour city lies still and quiet below me, the white buildings shimmering opalescent through a soft morning mist. The stars are slowly fading, and the sky in the east is lightening to gold. I take deep breaths of the pure, cool air, and allow the peace and enchantment of the place to seep into my _fëa_.

_Finally, Flower, I comprehend what you mean when you call this our true home…_

I sense him, and where he is. My feet are pulled down a wide flagstone path. I see faint flashes of vision… down past the stables this way… and thence to the sea. There is a steep path descending yonder. I will dare even that. I am invincible today, I am clad in mithril and magic. Birdsong and wave-song serenade me as I walk. Trees with leaves of green and silver sigh and bow towards me as I pass. The fragrant white, crimson and pink flowers of shrubs that line the path nod at me and pour forth sweet perfume.

_Then…_

A voice.

A stone’s throw from the stables, a cheerful, booming voice speaking Sindarin carries in the quiet of the morning.

“So, my brother and my grandsons just arrived last night, hey? Is my mother here already, then?”

_That voice. No._

I am rooted to the middle of the path. My eyes are riveted on the long, wooden building that is half-hidden from my sight by bushes bright with scarlet blossoms.

“Yes, she is,” comes a lighter, more musical voice… Gwendir? “We were all awake and celebrating most of the night. Your mother and son retired not long past to their chambers.”

“No matter, no matter. Disturb no one. I shall wait,” replies the deep voice.

A tall lord emerged from the stables with Gwendir at his side. The young _ellon_ is looking more dishevelled—and happier—than I have ever seen him.

“Well, I’m off to the hall for breakfast. A bracing voyage, last evening! I am famished enough to eat an ox. My best regards to your fair lady. Eh?” And he winks as he elbows Gwendir lightly, almost knocking him over.

Gwendir blushes almost as crimson as the flowers in the shrubbery around, but also grins broadly. “And mine to yours, _hîr-nín_. _Galu!”_ And he returns to the stables with some alacrity.

The tall lord saunters up the path towards me whistling a cheerful tune. He is taller than even my beloved. Peak of Taniquetil, he is almost as tall as his elven grandfather.

And he is the spitting image of his father, sans the beard. The same noble pride and confidence in every move, his build slightly broader and sturdier than the lithe forms of the Eldar. I take in the powerful, muscled shoulders, the girth of his torso and arms and thighs and calves. His flowing hair is the colour of corn silk, his bright blue eyes candid and compelling in their gaze. The lines of his nose and jaw and cleft chin are strong and manly, his face open and joyous. He had been surpassing fair, as a child, and even then he had had a strong look of his father. But now, seeing him in adulthood, I am shaken to the core by the resemblance. And he shines, his light brighter even than Laurefindel’s. Touched by the light of the silmaril he has carried across the skies through two long ages, he appears almost like one of the Ainur. The silmaril itself, I think in a daze, must be in the pack slung casually across his back.

The forget-me-not blue eyes of Gil-Estel, the Star of High Hope, meet mine.

My chest tightens till I can barely breathe. In my ears are echoes, cries of death and sounds of battle. The ringing of blades—sword against axe, Anguirel against Dramborleg. I see, close to my face, grim battle fury in bright blue eyes.

I am suddenly overcome by a sensation of falling…

With all the will and strength in me, I stand straight as an arrow and very still as the blue eyes of he who is hailed as the Splendour of the Children of the Earth rest upon me. I find myself thinking, in the most detached fashion, that it is clearly not his father that dark-haired, grave-faced Elrond takes after, with his reserve and dry humour. For a moment, I doubt paternity.

The whistling stops, and the Bright Star of Morning and Eventide smiles and sweeps a gallant bow.

 _“Ae! Mae le’ovannen_ , fair lady! _”_ booms Eärendil Ardamirë, the Jewel of the World. We had conversed in Quenya, when he was a child. But it appears Sindarin is as common on Tol Eressëa as it was in Ennor, and as it must have been at the Havens. “Were you a passenger on the ship that arrived last night?”

At his greeting, I feel a spasm of bodily pain unexpectedly grip me, and catch my breath. I remember a desperate but futile parry, Dramborleg slashing at my groin, finding the vulnerable point in my black galvorn armour.

“ _Mae le’ovannen, Hîr_ Eärendil. I was indeed,” I manage to reply as the pain subsides. My clearly advanced condition excuses me from a curtsey.

“ _Ai!_ Know you who I am?” he exclaims in surprise. “You have the better of me then, _híril-nín!_ You must then be one of my son’s household from Imladris?”

“Yes, I am, _Hîr_ Eärendil.” My voice sounds strange to myself, thin and disembodied. As he walks closer to me, I resist the impulse to back away from him, and stand my ground.

“I saw the ship from Ennorath in the harbour as Vingilot landed and docked. The second in two months! And very possibly the last. A tiring journey, for an _elleth_ in your delicate state. Blessings upon the joyous birth to come! Your _hervenn_ travelled with you, I hope?”

“Yes.” My voice sounds calmer now. I hear myself add, “My _hervenn_ is Glorfindel.” I am stunned to hear myself. Is this what two centuries of marriage to an incorrigibly honest _nér_ has done to me?

The Herald of the Morning stops in his tracks, blue eyes widening. My stomach churns, my heart is hammering, and my palms are sweaty.

A friendly grin splits his face.

He opens his arms wide and advances on me.

“Sister!” he thunders. “So, _you_ are the fair one who has finally made conquest of my sweet brother!”

_Blessed relief… he truly knows naught. No one has told him… I am safe. Play along, woman. Smile sweetly at him. Call him brother. Welcome his embrace. Kiss his sodding halfelven cheek._

But involuntarily, my foot backs by a step, and he halts.

“ _Díheno-nín_. I can be a bit overpowering, my wife always says, but, well, you must understand my excitement—we are _family!”_ He beams brightly.

_Oh, you have no idea._

Eärendil’s hand goes to his strong, cleft chin and a speculative look grows on his face. His blue eyes narrow slightly and his blond eyebrows draw together as he gazes into my eyes. My black, black eyes. He looks puzzled. He takes another step forward. I hate my legs for going weak as he towers before me.

“Have we… met before, my sister?”

_Oh, no no, of course not, Hîr Eärendil… of course we have never met… born and bred in the Third Age… never been to Beleriand..._

To my horror, I hear myself say in an even voice, “We have indeed.” _Shut up, fool. Shut up!_ But inexorably, this voice continues to speak from my lips… “In Gondolin.”

A blond eyebrow lifts in surprise, then his forehead furrows in perplexity. “Hmm… Gondolin?” He looks at me, unenlightened. “I was just a child then… I do not recall… Were you with us as we escaped? I do not recall you among the survivors.”

I gaze steadily into my nephew’s blue eyes, and hear myself say, “I did not escape.”

As he ponders that nugget with a deeper frown, pain hits me. A wall of it. I break out in cold sweat.

As my knees buckle, Eärendil exclaims sharply, “My sister! You are unwell?” And he reaches out. To steady me. I know it is only to steady me. _You stupid cow, he knows nothing. He is but trying to help._

“Stay away from me!” I take a step backwards, dazed and bent over with pain. “You know not who I am.”

“Well, no, I do not,” says the _peredhel_ , thoroughly baffled by the antagonism and bizarre behaviour of this strange woman his foster brother has married.

I sway. The world around me swims. _Anguirel flying out of my hand… the black blade shrieking in terror as it hurtles into space, spins through the air, and plunges downwards…_

And then I feel something burst.

“Oh, sweet Varda! Let me help you.” The son of Tuor takes a step forward and makes to carry me.

“No!! I need no help. _Do not touch me!!”_

I feel his strong hands on me. Lifting me as though I am a child.

_…beneath me, the rocky slopes of Amon Gwareth, and a yawning chasm of flame…_

“Put—me—down!”

_…sky and earth turning, the air screaming past… no, that is me… that is me screaming…_

“My sister, you can barely stand!”

_…a split-second of clarity and terror as the rocks rush to meet me…_

“Let me carry you into the house!”

_…then the dark._

 

I hear the hum of voices. A low, intense murmur of hushed voices.

“Holy Varda, not a midwife within fifty leagues to be had,” mutters Elrohir in the background.

“No midwife. We don’t need a midwife,” says my beloved, firm and calm. “We have Thalanes.”

“Where is she?” says Elladan, somewhere nearby.

“In the healing hall preparing a herbal draught,” replies his father.

I open my eyes slowly. Laurefindil is the first person I see, sitting next to me, on the bed. He turns his head at once and smiles down at me. Behind him and gathered around the bed I see Elrond, Mithrandir, my sons, Elladan and Elrohir. And Eärendil, still with a slightly baffled look on his face. His mother is at his side with an unreadable expression on _her_ face as she stares at me.

_You would be ever so relieved, Itarillë, would you not, if I died in childbirth as weak mortals do? Or faded away like Miriel Serindë? Sorry to disappoint you. I am stubborn as stone and strong as iron._

Behind all these, I see a crowd of Imladrim hovering at the doorway.

 _“Vennoya?”_ I speak to his mind.

_“Yes, vesseya?”_

_“Get… everyone… out.”_

A movement to the left of the bed. I turn my head and see another gleam of gold… a figure standing quietly next to a wardrobe in the corner of the room, arms folded, long golden hair shimmering against his dark blue tunic. Brilliant grey eyes meet mine, and in their depths as they regard me there is nothing but kindness and warmth… and understanding. My law-father smiles luminously at me as I gape at him. He steps forward with a familiar, lithe grace and bows to me. “ _Mae le’ovannen, Lómiel. Im Finrod Finarfinion._ _Le suilannon_...” His voice, though soft, is resonant and musical.

And in my mind, I hear: “… _anelya_.” It is gentler and less intrusive than Galadriel would be, leaving behind a warmth like a ray of sunshine.

Then, without waiting for my reply, or for a word from Laurefindil, Finrod quietly begins to herd everyone out, including Itarillë. She looks as though she would protest, but one gentle look from him, and to my astonishment she submits meekly, looking suddenly like the young niece he must have carried over the Helcaraxë on his shoulders. Last of all are my golden twins, who to their own surprise find themselves walking of their own volition out of the room at the rear of the crowd, the arms of their grandfather around their shoulders.

Only Elrond and Mithrandir remain behind with Glorfindel.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” I say, a tad testily, discomfited by their intent gazes. “My water has broken. That is all.”

“Let and Elrond and Olórin examine you, _melimë_ —”

“Mithrandir? What would a _maia_ know about having a baby??” I say indignantly.

“I _am_ from the Gardens of Healing at Lórien, my dear.”

“Hmm… it looks like you are more than halfway dilated already—” murmurs Elrond.

“Well, well, obviously a baby in a hurry—” chuckles the maia.

“I am afraid there is no midwife, but Thalanes will be here shortly,” says Elrond.

“That is fine. Midwives are useless. I have had _twins_. This is _nothing_ —” Then I suck in my breath as the familiar pain grips me. Lauro reaches for my hand and smiles.

“We need this time alone,” he says to the others. “Please.”

Elrond and Mithrandir nod and smile, and in a moment they have shut the door behind them. My beloved lies down next to me. “You had me frightened for a moment,” he says reproachfully.

“That was your _father?”_

He grins, the concern in his face replaced with a rapturous glow. “Yes! We spoke for hours whilst you slept… he is _awesome_ …”

“And how did I get back here? What happened just now… with… with Eärendil… did you see?”

“No. But our sons did. All eager to go a-exploring, they were running to the stables when they saw you struggling with a tall stranger who, as they thought, was seeking to abduct you. They did my training proud, Gwendir says. Arman wrested you out of his arms, and Aryo knocked the feet out from under our hapless star, and turned him face down to the ground with his right arm pinned behind his back—”

I cannot help but smile at the thought of my son arm-twisting the mighty slayer of Ancalagon the Black, half a head taller than himself.

“—that was when I arrived. Eärendil was on the ground with Aryo sitting on him, and Arman was nearby holding you. Poor Eärendil was protesting vehemently that he had only been trying to help, and our sons were vilifying him for a cur and a kidnapper.”

I should not, but I laugh.

 “The boys should have known better!” exclaims Lauro. “How many blond half-elvens are there on the loose in Aman, after all?”

“They must have been mortified when they realized their error.”

“Oh, yes. They could not apologize enough. I then carried you into the house. We had quite an audience, for, unfortunately, the ruckus by the stables had drawn the attention of everyone who was not stone drunk. Eärendil still has not been told anything, by the way—I have forbidden it. So I brought you here, sang healing for you, and…”

His voice fades away, and his face is haunted as he averts it. And I see it in his mind. My fall from Amon Gwareth…

Witnesses say I struck the rocks three times as I fell. It would have made no difference to me. I was dead on the first.

“But… you have seen this same moment before…” He had held me and brought light and healing to me as I fell in my dreams. I could not understand why it would cause him to unravel now. I see now, in his mind, flashing images of his own fall, though he tries to hide them. The balrog’s deafening howl. The agonizing, searing pain of fire devouring flesh, and the crackle of the flames, the choking smoke… flame and heat and the icy cold of the mountain heights all at once… the memories of his own death, that had not bothered him in over six millennia, suddenly resurrected by mine.

“It was most strange. I do not understand it myself… but this was _not_ as a dream. It was truly as though we had gone back in time and were re-living it. As though I was sucked into you and we both were falling. I could not break free to proceed with the healing.” He shakes his head. “Elrond and my… my _atar_ had to take over… I could not carry on… ”

“Finrod in my mind?” That utterly horrifies me. The thought of Elrond is appalling too.

“No, _melimë_. My _atar_ would never do that without your consent. And you should know by now that it is not by song nor by _osanwë_ that Elrond heals, but by skill of hand and herbs. My _atar_ tended me, as Elrond tended you… ” I struggle to sit up and he helps me. He embraces me tightly and with a deep kiss banishes all memory of death, then pulls away with a smile but his face full of tender concern again. “Anyway, I feel fine now. Better than before. How about you?” Gazing into the depths of his azure eyes, I see that his father has given him what I could never have. The shadow is gone, that had touched him for a century.

Relieved to see him wholly himself again, I smile. That earlier sense of well-being, of strength and vitality has returned. “I am well. Very well.” Our daughter wiggles and kicks in my womb, impatient to get out, and we both laugh.

“Most assuredly a baby in a hurry,” he says, just as there is a soft knock on the door.

Thalanes enters with cups and a jug of a beverage I remember from the first birth—a warming, soothing, fortifying brew of herbs and honey. The earthy, minty fragrance fills the room as she sets it all down by the bed. “I shall wait upon you in the adjoining chamber, _mellyn_. Is there aught else you need at present?”

I am the veteran of a twin-birthing. “Naught for a long while more—” I begin to say, but then a spasm seizes me. _“Aaaiii…_ _muk!”_ And I grab my beloved’s hand and crush it.

_Five minutes… The interval was barely five minutes…_

He smiles at our friend the healer, unperturbed. “I shall call you nearer the end, Thalanes. In about forty hours.”

 

Laurefindil’s estimate of the time is not too far off. Thirty-nine hours later, as stars glimmer outside the window, a beaming Thalanes places the cleaned, swaddled infant in his arms, and he brings our child to me and places her on my chest. I gaze into her alert, curious silver-grey eyes and kiss damp strands of raven hair on her tiny head.

As Thalanes quietly shuts the door behind her, Laurefindil lies down by me, and gazes dotingly at our daughter. “Artalissë,” he pronounces over her, gently stroking her soft cheek with a finger.

 _Noble grace._ A suitable father-name to honour the father’s paternal line.

I look into her little grey eyes, and the mother-name comes to me, unexpectedly but with conviction. “Mirimë,” I say, and Lauro nods solemnly at me. _She-who-is-free…_

I gently set her on the bed so she is cocooned between us. We interlace our fingers, and lie contentedly watching her move and feeling her kicks through the swaddling. I yawn and shut my eyes. As I drift away into Irmo’s realm, I hear the hushed voices of our sons from the door.

“Oohhh… she is _adorable_ …”

“So are they. Look—sound asleep, both of them.”

I want to speak to them, to send them even a thought, but every fibre of my being is heavy, so heavy with exhaustion. I feel myself floating away on a cloud, and their voices receding…

“Aryo, she is looking at us!”

“She is too young to see us, Arman.”

“No—I swear to you, she is! See?”

“Holy Varda, you’re right! _Aiya_ , little one… we are your brothers…”

_…a shining lake in a vast forest… birdsong and a gentle breeze… Laurefindil takes my hand with a smile, and we walk towards the shore…_

 

He gently wakes me with a kiss. “ _Vesseya_ …”

I come to with a start, waking from my beautiful dreams to the reality of my still sore, bruised and now-emptied body. “How long did we sleep?” I murmur, looking around the darkened room lit only by starlight.

“About two hours, I think,” he says, after a glance at the starlit sky visible through the window.

Then, feeling the void, I exclaim sharply, “Where is our baby?!”

“The boys must have carried her out.” He obviously had heard them too.

“I have not even fed her yet!”

“Worry not. They will know to bring her back when she needs it…”

And if they did not, surely there were many others in the house who would know to. We can hear flute and harp, singing and voices and laughter outside the chamber—a great feast is underway. I recall the peace and tranquillity of Lothlórien one hundred and twenty years ago with some regret.

We wash and dress with haste, and I change the cloth for the bleeding and don another of the loose, high-waisted dresses I have worn this past year. Already my body is beginning to reshape and tighten, to restore itself. It might be only another month before I am myself again, for I am not as stretched as I had been with the twins. As we descend the stairs and cross the foyer, the music wraps its beauty around us, hymns of Ulmo and the sea. The sight that unfolds before us as we step into the hall takes our breath away. Lamps of soft gold, white and rose hues glow above us in the high, arched ceiling, and upon the garden terrace. A constant flow of food and drink is circulating on large trays carried through the hall.

And all across the hall, singing and laughing, talking and eating, dancing in intricate circles and patterns, is a gathering of at least three hundred _edhil_.

However Elrond had tried to keep our arrival quiet, the news must have spread and led a number to abandon the festivities of the Falassë Númëa only to resume them here. I recognize many Imladrim of the late Third Age, but there are many unfamiliar faces as well—those who must have sailed ere I returned to Endórë. Murmurs and a chorus of welcomes and well wishes erupt as the crowd espy us entering the doorway. I scan the gathering anxiously for our daughter, and see Lindir singing with others on a dais, whilst musicians play nearby on harps and flutes. To our left, Erestor is deep in conversation with Elrond, Celeborn and Galadriel… diplomacy and inter-kindred relations in Eldamar, from the snatches I overhear. Out on the terrace, Celebrían is speaking with a dark-haired _nís_.

Down the centre of the hall runs a long wooden table. At one end of it sits a group playing what looks to be an exceedingly complex card game. The group comprises Eärendil, Elladan and Elrohir, Aryo, a maia smoking a pipe… and two special guests: a Sindarin-Silvan prince who was supposed to have already departed for the mainland, and an ancient dwarf who should have been in the halls of Aulë. They must have returned to Tol Eressëa in anticipation of our arrival.

“Glorfindel! Lómiel!” calls Legolas happily, springing to his feet and throwing down his cards. “ _Lû veren!_ Joyous occasion!”

“Joyous indeed!” Lauro replies with a laugh, as we walk arm-in-arm towards them—and then I see our daughter.

To our right, at a far corner of the hall, Finrod and Itarillë turn around at the sound of Laurefindil’s laugh. Next to them is a slender _nís_ with silver-gold hair, rocking my baby in her arms. My baby moves restlessly in her swaddling clothes, pouting and resentful of restraint. Her tiny face is puckering and turning red. And right at that moment, she begins to wail.

I feel her hunger and fretfulness, and have no other thought but to go to her—but suddenly Lauro grabs hold of me, pushes my head down, and quickly pulls me under the table, slipping us past the legs of an astonished pair of _peredhel_ twins with amazing agility.

“What the _hell_ —” I protest in shock and anger, but he lays a finger on my lips and shakes his head.

“ _Ssshhh_ … _not a sound…listen carefully…”_

And through the entrance to the hall, above the hubbub of music and chatter in the hall, I hear a deep voice speaking in Quenya:

“—and here they all are—”

My heart skips a beat and I hold my breath.

“—and Artanis here as well! You see? We were abandoned!” says the deep voice, sounding much aggrieved. Lauro and I peer past Elrohir’s legs to see the former King of Gondolin standing in the doorway, still in his deep-blue travel cloak. There, where we had been standing just a moment past. The tall, elegant Vanya next to him, clad in a silver dress covered with a cloak of lilac and turquoise, looks so like Itarillë that even were her hand not laid on Turukáno’s arm, a halfwit might have guessed who she is.

My king. He looks exactly as I remember. Formidable, half a head taller than even Laurefindil—the tallest among the children of Ilúvatar I have ever beheld, never having laid eyes upon Elu Thingol. His chiselled features are at present looking rather offended. That stern, aloof expression had ever held me at a distance even as he conferred honour upon honour on me. I could not save your mother, Lómion. Here, have a princely title. I killed your father, Lómion. Here, have a house and a lordship. For over a century I had stood at his right hand and sat in his most private counsels. “Good,” he would say with a nod. “Excellent. Well done, Lómion.” And his face—and heart—would be stone to me.

And I despised myself for weakness. For pathetically craving the sentimentality of a smile, a hand on my shoulder, even a pat on the back. Things I saw him casually bestow on a golden-haired lord who could occasionally make him laugh. Better to be respected and relied on, I told myself. Better to be the one whose counsel he heeds, not the fool who wins his smile…

I feel all of this come back to me with aching, bitter resentment in the first heartbeat that I gaze at him… then the golden-haired fool I had so hated pulls me close, and leans his golden head against mine, and banishes it all with a warm surge of his love, _fëa_ to _fëa_.

Abruptly, another person ducks under the table to join us, and we look into the face of our firstborn. In the gallery of portraits at Imladris hangs a large painting of the King of Gondolin. Aryo must have recognized him at once. My son’s brow is furrowed. The boys spent years dreaming of meeting Turukáno and his lords, of being introduced by their father, of living in a new Gondolin. And now, the moment has come, and here we are crouching under a wooden trestle, peering at the King of Gondolin through the gaps between Elladan and Elrohir’s legs. Aryo scowls. _“I hate this.”_

So do I, _yonya_.

I hate that he needs to hide from the myriad questions his golden head of hair would arouse, to hide from questions about his parentage. I hate that he will always need be ashamed of me, and that he cannot now openly take pride in his father and his father’s lineage. But stronger than all that is my wrenching guilt and fear, the overwhelming need to hide from the king I once served and swore fealty to, the uncle I failed and betrayed and destroyed.

Past Elrohir’s calf, I see Turukáno turn his head to look at the group at the table, and I shrink further back.

The full skirts of a long, white dress suddenly sweep before us and obscure our view of our former king. “ _Aiya_ , Turno, Elenwë. How good that you could join us,” says Galadriel.  

Bronze-hued robes move forward as well. “Great-grandfather, great-grandmother. _Amatúlië_ … It is a great honour to have you under my roof.”

 _“Where’s Arman?”_ my beloved asks our firstborn.

 _“Went to explore the winecellars,”_ replies Aryo, looking quite wretched and resentful.

Above the music and noise of the crowd, an angry wail signals our daughter’s hunger and tiredness. Immediately Lauro and I reach out to her to soothe her with loving thoughts. We look out past Gimli’s sturdy legs on the other side of the table and see, through the crowd, Amárië and Finrod slowly making their way past a group of dancers weaving in graceful patterns across the floor. They must be seeking to escape out onto the terrace. The Vanya rocks our daughter in her arms, and I see tiny hands flailing as the wailing continues. _Osanwë_ is not enough for Mirimë—she needs her first milk, she needs our touch. Our attempts at soothing her only make her cries more demanding, more urgent. Anguish stabs my heart.

_“She needs to feed. She needs us to hold her, and rock her to sleep.”_

_“I know, melimë… and such a surfeit of noise and lights and crowd is too much for a little one.”_

Next to our hiding place, introductions are underway.

“…Elladan, Elrohir…”

“Noble forefather and foremother, our hearts rejoice to meet you…”

Turukáno has walked so close to the table now, we could reach out and touch him. We might have admired the stylish cut of his boots and the intricate embroidery on his cloak-hem more were we not so anxious not to be discovered.

I half expect Gimli, Legolas and Eärendil to peer under the table, bewildered and curious—and am relieved and surprised that they have not. Obviously, whatever they are thinking or feeling, they are taking their cue from the others—from Galadriel, Elrond, Mithrandir, Celeborn, Erestor and the pereldar twins. The solidarity of our allies and friends touches me.

“…but where is Laurefindil— _Glorfindel_ —did he not sail with you?”

“Revered forefather, Glorfindel sailed with us indeed—”

“—but, ah, urgent matters have called him away. Quite suddenly—”

“—it would have grieved him most deeply to have missed you—”

As they speak, my eyes have been on my daughter again, as her grandparents chart a meandering course through the crowd.

Then it strikes me. Many of the Imladrim surely witnessed our disappearing act, yet all have blithely resumed dancing and singing, eating and drinking, as though naught has happened. And are all stalwartly _not_ looking in our direction.

And that is when I realize  _they know._ The Imladrim all know.

_Elrond…_

Any outrage I might feel at the magnitude of the perelda’s indiscretion is outweighed by awe at the Imladrim’s sympathy and support.

Lauro’s eyes meet mine. His thoughts match mine exactly.

Over the hauntingly beautiful chorus of a song of the Falmaríni, we hear our baby bawl.

 _“Poor Alassë…”_ says Aryo in thought.

We look at our firstborn.

_“Alassë? Who is Alassë?”_

_“We didn’t know what names you had chosen, so… Arman and I gave her an epessë.”_

“Alassë” is beyond a doubt the most unjoyful of babies at present.

“…I present Legolas son of Thranduil, and Gimli son of Gloin, of the Company of the Ring,” Elrond is saying.

“There is none in Eldamar who has not heard the tale of your valour and great deeds. I once met your companions, the halfling Ringbearers—” says Turukáno.

A shimmer of silver-blue to our right, as Itarillë quietly glides forward and stands next to her son.

“ _Órenya linda let-cenien_ , _Atto, Ammë—”_ she says in her light, sweet voice.

“ _Anelya_ , why did you leave with no word for us?” says Turukáno reproachfully.

“When word of the long-awaited ship reached me, I knew not where you and _Ammë_ were in the crowd, _Atto_. Forgive me that so eager was I that I rode hence without delay…”

“Why, I hear a baby...” An even lighter voice. Elenwë’s. “ _Vennoya,_ look over there—’tis Amárië—and Ingoldo!—with a _baby!_ Amárië! Ingo! _Heldor!”_

The fair-haired prince and princess are already out on the terrace, but they turn, Amárië starting guiltily. She is remarkably lovely, this other blonde law-mother of mine, and as her face flushes, she looks like a delicate pink rose. Others in their place might have smiled and made pretence of surprise—“Why, fancy seeing you here, _heldor!_ How charming!”—but not this pair. Finrod looks calm and resigned. Amárië looks like a child caught stealing sweets. The wail of our infant grows more strident even as we redouble our efforts to comfort her in thought.

“ _Our baby_ needs _us—”_ I am growing desperate.

“ _I know.”_ His love for me and for our daughter contend with each other. He crouches ready to spring.

Amárië and Finrod walk towards us with our baby, even as Turukáno and Elenwë walk towards them flanked by Elrond, Galadriel, Eärendil, Itarillë and the peredhel twins. Our baby cries on.

 _“She is so hungry.”_ I cannot bear it much longer.

 _“I can feel it too.”_ In a moment, Lauro is going to charge out there. I put my hand on his arm.

_“Don’t—you must not.”_

“—what a lovely child—” says Turukáno, though the baby’s face is red and crumpled as she squalls. “—fine lungs—”

“—a newborn!—” coos Elenwë.

“—who are the parents?—”

“—a baby is so rare a treasure in these latter days—”

Amárië looks uncertain. Finrod’s gaze is steady. My heart sinks. This pair do not have it in them to lie.

Our baby’s cries have grown heartrending. My breasts have begun to hurt… and to leak.

Mothers have been known to ford floods and face ferocious predators for the sake of their children. Love conquers fear. For my babe, I can brave one uncle and erstwhile King of Gondolin. Damn it all, have I not once spat in Moringotto’s face and told Sauron to sod off? Steely resolve fills me.

_“Stay here. I am going in.”_

My beloved does not try to stop me. _“Go. You can do this, melimë.”_

The backs of the two unexpected guests are towards me. I slip out from under the table. I push my way through the crowd unhesitatingly, and Elladan and Elrohir gasp as I pass them.

“ _Ai,_ _Ernilvess_ Amárië, _Ernil_ Finrod,” I sing out in Sindarin, in a sweet, breathless voice. Turukáno and his wife turn. I see the surprise on Elrond’s face, and the expression of utter shock on Itarillë’s. Amárië’s blue eyes are enormous. Even Galadriel and her brother look stunned. “My deepest thanks, _mellyn vuin_ …” I murmur dulcetly to my law-parents. “Alassë, _gwinig-nín…_ Nana is here…”

I bestow my most winsome smile on all present, giving Turukáno only the most fleeting of glances under my long, dark eyelashes as I move past him, repressing a shiver as my shoulder lightly grazes his arm. My eyes meet Amárië’s guileless azure ones, and she moves forward with a smile like a sunrise, a dimple quivering in her rosy cheek as she gently places the squalling baby in my arms. Almost instantly, the cries stop. My baby whimpers in near-exhaustion and nuzzles me hungrily. I kiss her and cuddle her close. I am almost in tears—so _relieved_ to finally be holding her. “ _Novaer_ , noble lords and ladies,” I murmur hurriedly, as I turn and make my way back towards the door. “I must take my leave… she needs must be fed…”

“Blessings most abundant upon this new little life, fair lady,” says Turukáno solemnly in Sindarin, staring intently at me and the baby as I move past him. Behind him, I see Eärendil looking at me strangely. The Star of High Hope witnessed it all, of course—the dive under the table, the concerted efforts of almost all present to pretend Laurefindil and I were never in this hall. He is not completely stupid. He has guessed something. But like his mother, he says naught.

“Joy and blessings,” affirms Elenwë in heavily-accented Sindarin with a gracious smile.

 _“Le hannon,”_ I murmur demurely as I move past them…

And at that moment, from my left, whence lie the passages that lead to the kitchens, Arman suddenly bounds into view, calling out to those still seated at the table in Westron as he triumphantly hoists a small cask: “Rejoice, O Gimli! There is _mead!”_

Then Arman sees Turukáno and almost drops the cask.

Turukáno’s eyebrow lifts. “…Legolas Thranduilion?” And he dubiously eyes the tunic of silver and cornflower blue that the Sindarin-Silvan prince had not been wearing a moment past. And his now-loose, unbraided hair.

I glance at the table, and see Legolas and his braided hair and his Silvan green-and-brown attire suddenly whisked under the table by two pairs of hands. His face impassive, the maia seated next to a very bemused Gimli obscures the trio beneath the table with the folds of his amazingly long, silver robe.

“ _Ai!_ Legolas! That was a swift change of raiment!” Elrohir is cheerfully saying to a bewildered Arman.

“Did we not say that shade of blue would bring out the colour of your eyes?” adds Elladan.

Arman looks completely stupefied. “I—ah— _gi hannon_.”

“And that which Legolas holds, Great-grandfather, is a quaint brew of fermented honey beloved to the Fírimar in Endórë. You must try it,” says Elrond smoothly. “Bring us cups!”

As I walk swiftly past the table towards the door, I hear a stifled sound from a Sindarin-Silvan prince, mostly drowned out by a soaring chorus from Lindir and the Imladrim.

Leaving the hall, I glance back to see Turukáno and Elenwë being persuaded by Finrod and Elrond to sample cups of mead. And as Mithrandir, Celeborn, Galadriel and Erestor stand in a wall shoulder-to-shoulder to block them from view, my beloved and my firstborn make a dash to the door, dragging poor Legolas between them.

 

Legolas sits cross-legged on the couch in our bedchamber, taking it all in, his hair and elven skin shimmering softly in the darkness.

“Bright Elbereth,” he says, shaking his silver-gold head in wonder. “I would never have dreamed… of course, I wondered oft about Arman…” Then he glances at me a little shyly, almost unable to meet my eyes. “Your secret is safe with me, fear not.” 

“I know it is safe,” I reply quietly, as I lie on the bed with the baby sleeping on my chest, her tiny tummy filled with the first milk. I gently stroke her back.

How does one react at the news that one they know is a _nér_ reborn as a _nís?_ I think Legolas is still bewildered by the discovery. At the very least, I imagine it would be incentive for him to take care never to meet Námo.

Laurefindil stands at the window, the soft golden glow of his hair illuminating the room as he watches stars travel across the sky. Legolas smiles at Aryo, who is pacing the floor a little restlessly. “So I have cousins! I always wanted siblings, but this is better. I have always loved you and Arman.”

“You have been _gwador_ to Arman and me, Legolas, long ere we ever knew ourselves kin to you. No brother could be dearer to us,” replies Aryo. He stops his pacing. “What are we to do now?” he asks his father. “Hide like rats in this chamber till Turukáno departs?”

“Perhaps not. I am wondering if we need go to the mainland at all. The Imladrim all know… and they are on our side. Perhaps we could stay. And live openly here.” He looks at me. “It went well enough with Turukáno, did it not? Could we not resume the life we had in Imladris? You are my wife, born in Ennor in the Third Age’s last years. Why should we not simply descend that staircase and hide no longer?”

“Truly, none could guess it, looking at you,” Legolas assures me. “Especially if they were to see you thus, holding little Alassë.”

“Mirimë—” “Her name is Mirimë—” Lauro and I say at almost the same time.

“Well, that is very pretty too. _‘Free’_ —is that what it means?”

“Your Quenya improves.”

“It does, does it not? Mayhap I will even speak it someday.”

Arman slips in the door without knocking and closes it silently behind him. “All that feasting and mead was too much for a two-hundred-and-sixty-one year old dwarf… I have just escorted Gimli back to his room and tucked him into bed. He called me ‘Legolas’ ere he dozed off. He began a grand snoring the moment his head touched the pillow…” His eyes soften as they rest on his tiny sister. “Aww… and Alassë sleeps as well!”

“Mirimë,” Lauro and I chorus.

“ _Atto_ says that perhaps we could stay here,” Aryo tells his twin.

“I do not know about that… Prince Turgon has been asking about _Ammë_ and Alassë—”

I stiffen. “Mirimë,” I murmur, all the same.

“—I overheard him remarking to Lady Galadriel ‘how like to Írissë’ _Ammë_ and Alassë both look. He wants a chance to meet and speak to you again, _Ammë_.”

I feel a knot tighten in the pit of my stomach at that, and forget about correcting the name.

“That decides it, then—” says my beloved.

No one believes in knocking. The door opens and Finrod slips in.

The prince surveys us gravely and a little sadly. “I have a ship anchored in the harbour that can take twenty. The _Súrirámar_ ,” he says slowly, a little reluctantly. “Turukáno is still set on an interview with… ‘Aduialiel’, as Elrond has named her. It might be better if your family and horses cross the Straits before daybreak. Would you wish to?”

Laurefindil and I exchange a glance, a thought. “Yes,” he says.

“Very well. Elrond will then let it be known that ‘Aduialiel’ of Imladris has departed with her babe and husband for the mainland. The crew of the _Súrirámar_ are all at the Falassë Númëa, but you and I, _yonya_ , can sail it easily. Do you know Dolphin Cove? There is a house on the beach where you can stay. Wait a week for me there, and I will return to lead you by the loneliest paths through the Calacirya.”

After five millennia away from Aman, Laurefindil knows that is wisest. “That is well _, Atar.”_

“We can sail too, _Haru,_ ” says Arman at once. The twins had grown skilled on the voyage from Endórë.

Finrod looks thoughtful, if a little despondent. “The three of you could certainly handle _Súrirámar_ without me…”

“If we take her, would you have no other ship for your own return to the mainland?” Laurefindil asks.

Finrod smiles. “There are any number of ships that would be happy to carry us over the Straits, _yonya_. I am being foolish… it is just that we have had _so little time_. I have barely met all of you, my children, and now we are to part. I feel I have thousands of years to catch up on, and I am impatient to begin… it is naught, I must not be foolish. Shall we depart in an hour? Excellent. Lómiel and Alassë must rest well first.”

My beloved and I look at each other ruefully. Her brothers’ hastily, thoughtlessly chosen name has stuck in the minds of all. And in that moment, we surrender and accept the _epessë._

We discuss a descent by a back staircase to a door near the kitchens, and thence to the stables. Legolas will return to the hall, keep an eye on Turukáno, and signal to us from the terrace if it is safe for us to ride forth. An hour down to the harbour, farewell to the prince, then a mere three hours to cross the straits in Finrod’s wind-swift ship…

As Arman and Legolas laughingly swop clothing, Laurefindil and I gaze down at the tiny head of black hair upon my breast, and look at our daughter’s sweetly dreaming silver-grey eyes.

 _Alassë._ It is a good name too, we tell ourselves.

And one which we could only hope would prove true in every way.

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Díheno-nín [S] – forgive me [formal]

Mirimë [Q] – “mirima” means “free” in early Quenya, and also sounds very much like “mírima” which means “very precious and lovely”. So great meanings all round!

Lû veren [S] – occasion/time + festive/gay/joyous

Amatúlië [Q] – welcome [plural]

Falmaríni [Q] – mermaids

Alassë [Q] – Joy

Órenya linda let-cenien [Q] – my heart sings to see you both

Heldor [Q] - friends

Ernil [S] – Prince

Ernilvess [S] – Princess / prince’s consort/wife

Gwinig-nín [S] – my baby

Novaer [S] – goodbye/farewell [no+maer = “be good”]

Aduialiel [S] – daughter of twilight – a Sindarin version of Lómiel [because I don’t want to use Lúthien or Arwen’s names]

Súrirámar [Q] – wings of the wind

Haru [Q] - grandfather

 

* * *

_Apologies if the mix of Sindarin and Quenya names in Maeglin's POV is annoyingly messy. Maeglin and Glorfindel operate in two different languages - Sindarin in the Third Age, Quenya in First Age Gondolin and with each other, and it does get all mixed up - and confusing when their two lives and two worlds collide, as they do now. She has always known Turgon and Idril as Turukáno and Itarillë, whereas Finrod introduced himself to her using his Sindarin name. She thinks of Gandalf/Olórin primarily as Mithrandir because I have decided that was what all the Imladrim called him even after he turned from grey to white. Nimrandir, anyone? It didn't work for me._

_One anomaly – I think she would call Gondolin "Ondolindë", but I decided to go with "Gondolin". It just sounds... right._


	39. Travellers

“Turnips!” exclaimed the raven-haired traveller, at long last goaded beyond all endurance as they moved through the cool forest shadows. “A month past, when we rode past _fields_ of them, you scorned to nibble more than two. And _now_ you have a craving for _turnips?_ There are wild apples, peaches, the sweetest glade-grasses, and every form of edible leaf and bark in the forest around—but _you_ —you must have _turnips.”_

His companion made a sound that was half a snort, half a sigh.

“Spoilt. Pampered and spoilt rotten,” the raven-haired one muttered, his diamond-bright silver eyes flashing in annoyance. Six months of searching through the wilds of Aman had not worn down his notoriously steely patience half as much as the incessant whims and griping of his companion had. “’Tis well you remained this side of Alatairë. Be grateful you never had to freeze and starve upon the Helcaraxë, nor suffer the dark terrors of Nan Dungortheb, nor fight at Lammoth nor in the Nirnaeth Arnoediad—”

His companion gave a clearly derisive snort this time.

“I do _not_ go on and on about Endórë,” said Raven-haired, ducking his head to avoid a bough. “And ’tis only the third time I have mentioned Nan Dungortheb. In six months.”

The retort was a long, grumpy snort, as they picked their way down a mossy slope dappled with dancing patterns of light falling through the leaf-canopy overhead.

“He was a trusty steed, though only mortal. And he withstood terrors _you_ could ne’er imagine—”

A half-squeal of outrage.

“Never did I imply you were craven. Had you to take me into battle, I know you would do valiantly,” said Raven-haired in a conciliatory tone of voice. But he could not resist adding, “But you would have complained every league there. And every league back. _My feet hurt. Why must orcs stink so? I miss oats. I want to go home—”_

A long, grumbling snort.

“You are a fine one to lecture me on responsibility,” Raven-haired said a little indignantly. “Both my Houses will be fine. I ensured all was in place ere we left. Egalmoth and Duilin will have little to do beyond a monthly inspection—and fining revellers for diving or tossing food into the fountain during feasts.”

A loud sniff.

“I know you miss your mare, and your meadow. But… I cannot give up. Not yet.” He was silent for a while. “You have had half a dozen foals in your time. I have none. He is the closest to a foal I have ever had. And if I must search for him a year, five years more even, I shall. You mayst turn back to Alcarinos and leave me, if you wish. But I shall carry on.”

An affectionate nickering was the reply.

“I tell you what,” said the rider soothingly. “I hear a stream singing yonder. We shall find a pretty place on its banks, and I shall give you a good rub down—”

Then, he saw it—a flash of white in the distance, through the trees.

“Stay here.”

Dismounting so as to move more swiftly and silently through the growth, Raven-haired went in pursuit. Heard, with a leap of his heart, a familiar voice, far off.

“Aha!!” the voice rang triumphantly. “Now I have you!”

“Not yet, you do not!”

“To flee is futile! But I love that you try.”

“I shall fight back. Be warned.”

“Oh, nothing would please me more!”

 _It is him!_ Elated, the traveller ran in pursuit as the voices moved away from him. The woman’s voice… he knew it too. Though something about it was... changed. It was flatter in tone. More abrupt.

A commotion ahead, and stray flashes of whiteness through the thick growth. A gleam of gold. Then, all went still. Muttered curses in the second voice.

“Well! That was a short fight!”

“Any fight against you is one-sided.”

“That is true. We should devise a handicap next time.”

“A blindfold and both hands tied behind your back should suffice.”

An amused chuckle. “And would that please my love now?”

“A tempting thought…”

“I saw your traps! Quite impressive. But then, of course, you grew up in a forest.”

“But obviously, alas, they all failed. Because here you are.”

The voices were coming from the middle of a cluster of trees and shrubs so thick, that the traveller, as he drew closer, could only see stray glimpses of gold and white and black beyond. One figure, all in white with a gleam of bright gold, lying atop another in white and black.

“Yes, here I am!” said the well-loved voice in a familiar tone of mischief and glee. “And now, my love, according to the rules of the game—”

“—rules which you make up as we go along—”

“—I get to do whatever I want to you—”

“—which you do anyway, all the time—”

“—oh, not _all_ the time.” He added, meaningfully, his voice deepening ominously: “There is always… _page two hundred and three_. _”_

A groan. “Oh, _not_ page two hundred and three!”

“It has been quite a while,” he said, his voice slightly muffled.

“ _Mmm_ … but the process is so… _mmph_ … so _complicated,_ ” she protested half-heartedly in a smothered, breathless voice.

“It is all about build-up, love... _mmm_ …”

“Not _now_ ,” she gasped. “Wait till tonight— _aaah!_ —”

“Oh, very well. Tonight—”

“—uhh... no! Don’t stop _now_. Keep going.”

“As it pleases milady.” Heavy breathing and moans followed.

The traveller, listening in fascinated horror, began to edge away hurriedly, and almost did not notice the snare behind him. His foot triggered it, but he pulled away with such lightning fast reflexes that the noose went whipping up into the air without a captive.

Suddenly all the sounds in the thicket stopped. The whiteness he had seen through the shrubbery vanished, and the traveller cursed himself.

Then the familiar voice called out from behind him, “Ecthelion?”

He swung round to see Glorfindel looking out from behind a tree at him, azure blue eyes wide with astonishment. The golden-haired elflord stepped out into the open, a radiant smile lighting up his comely face.

“Great Tulkas, Ecthelion! I was wondering who it was trying to sneak up on me in the middle of the woods! If this was the mortal lands, I might have plugged an arrow into you!”

“Laurefindil!”

The two balrog slayers of Gondolin embraced in a tight hug.

“You look just the same!” said Glorfindel, when they at last released each other, looking into his friend’s face and speaking true.

A small but faithful following esteemed Ecthelion to be the most beautiful of the Lords of Gondolin, rather than Glorfindel, citing the flawless perfection of the Lord of the Fountain’s chiselled features. Even after six months of roughing it out, he still looked dashing and elegant. But the quiet, almost stern reserve with which he carried that dark-haired, silver-eyed beauty had always made him fade next to the golden glory and boyish charm of his joyous, ebullient friend. His beauty was even more understated now that the Lords of Gondolin had abandoned the extravagance of the First Age. There was still a gleam of silver woven into the braids in his dark hair, diamonds glittering in the clasp fastening his silvery-grey cloak, and silver embroidery on his midnight-blue tunic, but the display of gems and precious metals that had oft made Maeglin’s lip curl in derision was gone.

“Well, you are looking better than ever, Lauro,” said Ecthelion. And it was true. Even without the adornments of a Lord of Gondolin, Glorfindel’s face and form were luminous with a joy and beauty beyond anything Ecthelion had seen in those days of old. He looked radiantly happy, dressed with rustic simplicity in a loose, open-necked white linen tunic worn unbelted over off-white leggings. The golden glory of his hair, falling unbraided down his back, shone brightly in the forest shadows. He looked… fulfilled.

“So it is true, then—you have been hiding away in these woods.”

A sudden touch of wariness came to the azure-blue eyes. “And where did you hear that?”

“It was going round Alcarinos that two hunters espied you.”

Glorfindel gave an incredulous laugh. “With thousands of golden-haired Vanyar in Aman, how in Arda could they have been sure that was me?”

“They were from the House of the Hammer, Lauro. They recognized you.”

“Strange then, that I saw them not. Were they skulking behind the trees? Why did they not approach with a greeting?”

Ecthelion hesitated before saying, slowly, “Well… they said you looked a little… preoccupied.”

And he watched as the azure eyes widened in comprehension and a deep red suffused his golden friend’s cheeks and spread to his neck and the tips of his ears. His silver eyes glanced away and scanned the surrounding forest. _And where is your friend the White Lady now?_

An impatient neigh interrupted. Still a rosy pink and looking deeply embarrassed, Glorfindel turned with some relief to look at a sea-grey stallion with a dazzling, snow-white mane and tail, then laughed and said, “Yes, noble friend, I guess I _am_ his ‘foal’.”

“Laurefindil, meet Lossendol,” said Ecthelion drily. “Few are swifter of foot than he, but my mother pampered him so silly in my absence that he became as soft and lazy as a lady’s little lapdog. In a moment, he will ask you if you have turnips or oats.”

“I do, indeed!” Glorfindel smiled a little too brightly at them both, and stroked Lossendol’s muzzle. “Come! Let me show you both where I live. It is a little rough, but there is abundant drink and food. All the wine is finished for the moment, I am afraid, Telyo—but I have a very fine juice from forest fruits. And yes—there are both turnips and oats enow!”

 _And what of the lady?_ But Ecthelion kept silent. Imagined eyes a darker silver than his own watching them through the leaves surrounding… or perhaps she was long vanished, and would not return till he was gone.

The golden-haired lord led them on foot through woods too dense for riding, where only thin rays of sunlight slanted down. They went slowly.

“So, tell me of life in Alcarinos,” said Glorfindel.

Alcarinos was two hours’ ride from Tirion, in a fair green valley in the Pelóri mountains. No gates guarded the three mountain passes by which traffic came and went to it. And Ecthelion told him of Turgon’s radiant city, already two thousand years old, or New Ondolindë as some called it. He described the dazzling white towers and buildings, and how the Houses of old had been preserved, save for the Houses of the Wing and the Mole. He told of how he had governed both the Houses of the Fountain and the Golden Flower for the past two millennia, and how Glorfindel’s House still awaited his return. He described enticingly the rides and the hunts out of the city, though never far into the wilds south, and the games and friendly contests many of the former Gondolindrim still met to play, and which involved most of the Lords.

“It will surprise you that Salgant now voluntarily joins us. It is amazing how much more pleasant he is now. He has been almost likeable since he was rebodied.”

“I never found Salgant _dislikeable_. He lacked humour, and had atrocious ball-sense, but he was a good fellow.”

“You are kind, as ever. He was a right royal pain during all our war games, and when it truly mattered he was a coward. He regrets that deeply, however, and is anxious to make amends.”

“By joining the games?”

“Yes, quite the good sport now.”

“Has his ball-sense improved?”

“Not in the least.”

“I guess there was a limit to how much Námo could do. How about the sense of humour?”

“Better. He takes himself less seriously, but his attempts at jollity grate on Rauco no end. Oh, I must tell you… Rauco has married.”

“Oh? Who is the brave woman?”

“Nerdanel.”

“ _What??”_

Ecthelion smiled. “You heard aright.”

“Fëanáro’s Nerdanel?”

“There is only one.”

“That is amazing! Wait till I tell—ah—how did it happen?”

“None of us could have guessed how deeply Rauco admired her since he was a youngling. Almost one of the first things he did when rebodied was to go to Mahtan’s home and carry her off to Alcarinos. He knew Fëanáro was never coming back. The Valar gave her a dispensation to remarry.”

“Before or after he carried her off?”

“Hmm. That I am not sure of.”

“Well, good for Rauco!”

“And they have children.”

“No!”

“Oh, yes. A son and a daughter.”

“Nine children! She is nothing if not prolific. That must be an all-time record for the Eldar.”

“The first seven were already an all-time record. I imagine it is Eru’s way of comforting her for all her losses.”

“So the seven will never be released, I assume. Can you imagine the mayhem that would ensue if they returned to find their _amil_ remarried?”

“A fourth kinslaying… anyway, this shows that the Valar will _still_ bless a remarriage in certain situations.” Ecthelion added the last part rather meaningfully, but Glorfindel, looking serenely indifferent, was thinking of other things.

“So what kinds of games do you play?” Glorfindel asked with bright eyes, for that had been one of his great loves in the olden days.

“Oh, many variants of the old ones, including some of those you invented. Courses with physical obstacles and challenges of agility and strength, mostly, also many games involving all sizes and shapes of ball. There are hundreds of permutations of each game one can play, team or one-on-one, so it never grows stale. We meet almost every week, unless we go out on a long hunting trip.” Ecthelion paused. “We miss you, Lauro.”

Glorfindel was quiet for a while, then said softly, “I miss everyone too. You, most of all.”

“Come visit us then.”

 _We will not speak of your paramour, nor tell you to give up your love nest, nor berate you for shunning our city and our company,_ thought Ecthelion. _Everyone knows. And even if they judge you, they will say naught. And hope you see nothing of it in our eyes._

“I… I love these woods... it will be hard to leave them.”

“Even for just a few months? Just to say _aiya_ to a few old friends, and play a few games for old times’ sake?”

“I will see if I can, Telyo. _Ai!_ Watch your step.” And the golden-haired lord stooped to disarm and dismantle a complex mechanism involving ropes hidden on the forest floor that would have winched its prey high into the trees. More sophisticated than the one Ecthelion had triggered, but with the same result.

And as he walked and coiled the ropes around his arm, Glorfindel began to enquire about Prince Turgon, and the other Lords of Gondolin they had not yet spoken of, and their respective houses, one by one.

 

They walked a meandering route thirty minutes through the trees, which at last parted to reveal the breathtaking beauty of a shimmering lake. On its northern bank was a natural structure of wood and stone which seemed to blend into the forest that sat behind it. Near the house, Ecthelion saw a wooden jetty and a sailboat tied, bobbing gently on the smooth ripples of dark water. There were two outlying buildings further away, one of which might be a stable. Lossendol, after being pampered by the two elves with a rub down and a massage, and some oat mash with turnips, soon joined a gleaming white stallion and a dappled pale-grey mare grazing in a sunlit clearing nearby. In the distance, waterfalls cascaded down misty blue hills into the lake waters. The whole place breathed of peace and serene loveliness.

On a sheltered porch overlooking the lake and a fair garden filled with a wide variety of herbs and flowers, Ecthelion sat on a couch. Glorfindel disappeared behind some drapes drawn across a wide stone archway leading into the house and brought out a bowl of meat and vegetable stew, and fruit juice in an elegant cup of glazed fired clay that Ecthelion examined with some admiration. Hungry, the Lord of the Fountain ate a mouthful of stew. “This is good,” he said.

“Thanks. I made it.” Glorfindel had thrown himself into an armchair across from Ecthelion, and now lay casually sprawled in it.

Amusement flashed in the silver eyes. “Since when have you even stepped into a kitchen?”

“I will have you know I frequented the kitchens of my House to chat with my cooks!”

“Lauro, everyone knew you could not cook to save your life. You left it to the rest of us every time after a hunt.”

“I skinned, gutted, and cleaned the beasts. And started the fire.”

“Then lazed around till it was time to be fed.”

Glorfindel laughed. “That all changed in the Second Age. I oft travelled alone in the wilds of Endórë, so I began cooking for my own well-being. And then I found—I had a knack for it!”

“No servants here, then?”

“None are needed. The house is not large.”

Ecthelion ate silently for a while. He knew Glorfindel well enough to feel the tension in him, casual and relaxed as his pose on the chair across was. “Are the halls of Oromë nearby?”

“Not far. An hour’s ride to the north-west. He visits, occasionally. Would you like more gravy or a piece of bread with that?”

“No. This is perfect.”

Ecthelion was bewildered. _Oromë visits, occasionally._ Could it be possible that the Valar _condoned_ this affair? Approved of it, even? There were grounds aplenty for Aredhel to have her first marriage annulled… but if it were annulled, then why would the two lovers be hiding in the wilderness, instead of riding into Alcarinos and Tirion as husband and wife? Neither were the sort to be secretive, or to care what others thought. Unless…

He tried another tack.

“When the Lords dined with Turukáno at the Spring Feast last year, just after Salgant was released by Námo, we were all accounted for but for three. Tuor, of course, which is sad for Itarillë. You. We had heard the rumours of your return, and hoped to see you soon. And third of all is, of course… Lómion. We expect he will never be released, like Fëanáro and his sons.”

Glorfindel was still poor at disguising his emotions. Ecthelion at once saw the flash in the azure eyes, and the hardening of his mouth. The Lord of the Fountain continued: “It may be for the better. There is still anger and hate against him.”

Glorfindel’s eyes were sparking with white fire. “Even among the rebodied?”

“Not so much. For myself, there is no hate or bitterness. Just—incomprehension. Of how he could have done it. Simply thinking of it repels me. We talk of it occasionally, and I gather the others feel the same. But it is mostly the survivors who fled to the Havens who still harbour anger and hatred, who still cannot forgive or forget. Their bitterness at the horrors and hardships is unfading, especially as not all sought the Gardens of Lórien for healing.”

“Perhaps Estë and the Valar should have made it a requirement for all disembarking from the mortal lands,” said Glorfindel rather darkly. “Aman is a place where surely all hatreds should be put aside, and forgiveness should be found.”

 _So that is why,_ thought Ecthelion.

“Do you ever think of Nan Dungortheb?” asked Ecthelion.

“Not if I can help it,” replied Glorfindel.

“It still haunts me. Not the horrors themselves, but how I failed Irissë. I cannot imagine the torments she must have endured there.”

Glorfindel laughed shortly. “You have no idea how wrong you are. Irissë was tougher than any of us, or Beren Erchamion. She emerged out of that ghastly maze without even the shadow of nightmares and rode straight to Turkafinwë’s.” He smiled wryly. “Had she been in Mithrim with Findekáno instead of in Ondolindë, perhaps she should have been given a sword and loosed on the dragons in the Battle of the Sudden Flame. She might have trounced them so silly none of the other rot that followed would ever have happened.”

Ecthelion laughed as well. “You could be right. She would have ridden forth after her father to the gates of Angband itself.”

“She would,” Glorfindel said proudly. “And I would have been right behind her, had I been given half a chance.”

The memory of High King Fingolfin’s death, however, was too painful in the memory of all the Eldar, no matter that he now lived quite happily in his palace at Kortirion and ruled over the Noldorin exiles on Tol Eressëa. The two friends grew sober and fell silent. Ecthelion noted that Glorfindel was twisting the ends of a golden tress with his left fingers.

“So… how often do you see Irissë?” Ecthelion asked quietly, placing his empty bowl on the low table before him.

Glorfindel started a little. “I? See… Irissë?”

“Well… she spoke to you about Nan Dungortheb, did she not? You may be the only one who has spoken to her since she was rebodied. It is known she lives now in these parts.”

“I… see her now and then,” Glorfindel said, cautiously. “You know her. Never stays in one place for long.”

“She was always restless, like you.” And suddenly, Ecthelion was sick of the evasion and pretence. “Lauro… I _know_. The Hammers saw you with her. They recognized you both at once. _I_ saw… and heard you… both… just now…” He cleared his throat, embarrassed. “I admit it surprised me. But there is no doubt you two make a handsome couple… and she has always had courage and confidence to match yours…” Ecthelion paused, uncertain how to continue.

Glorfindel was staring at his friend strangely. There was an intensity in the blue eyes that was discomfiting, and his face had grown uncharacteristically expressionless and inscrutable. For a moment, Ecthelion was reminded of Lómion.

“The… the Valar know about your relationship?” asked Ecthelion finally.

Glorfindel gave a nod. “Yes.”

“So… her… first marriage… is…?”

_Tell me it is annulled. Tell me you are hiding away here because of Lómion. Please._

“Well… Eöl resides still with Námo.”

Ecthelion’s heart sank. “So he is her… _husband_ still _?”_

“Her one and only,” Glorfindel said calmly.

Ecthelion stared in unbelief for three long heartbeats at the boy he had raised. Had taught all the laws of the Eldar. And he saw six thousand years of unknown life gazing back. Millennia of self-sacrifice and service, victories and losses. And secrets. And changes. Suddenly he was staring at a stranger.

“So… you and she…”

“Yes?” Glorfindel said, his face all wide-eyed innocence. Ecthelion, remembering all he had overheard in the forest not long past, restrained an impulse to reach out and shake him.

“Are… not wed?”

“Irissë and I? Most definitely not wed.”

“And yet… you are…”

“Are _what,_ Ecthelion?”

And Ecthelion saw red. “By all that is good and holy, Laurefindil! I would never have dreamed—you—of all people—would have—”

“Would have _what,_ Ecthelion? Fallen in love?”

“Is _that_ what you call this? She is married to _someone else!_ How can you sit there and pretend there is nothing wrong? You _know_ it is wrong! By all I and Itarillë ever taught you, by the immutable laws of Eru Ilúvatar himself, this _should not be.”_

Glorfindel sighed. He pushed the heavy, silken tresses of his golden hair back from his face, bit his lip, and looked away.

_Thank Eru you have at least the good grace to look guilty and remorseful._

But finally, Glorfindel said, “Ecthelion—Irissë and I are _not_ doing anything wrong.”

_Damn it! How could you, of all people, tell a lie? And to me? I recognized her voice—I heard you both—talking and—and I heard… or could it be that you are suffering from some extraordinary form of self-delusion?_

Ecthelion took a deep breath, calmed himself and spoke in a more level voice. “Look. I wish it had all been different. I wish we had never lost her, and that whole mess with the dark elf never happened, and the traitor had never been born, and the city had never fallen—”

Glorfindel’s blue eyes had turned icy, and his face had become an inscrutable mask once again.

“—you would then have been able to woo and win her hand. Turukáno always loved you, and I have no doubt you could have won his blessing to wed his sister.”

“I doubt that,” Glorfindel said flatly. “Foundlings of unknown lineage do not marry into the House of Finwë.”

“Is that what bothers you? I should think Irissë would wed you regardless, knowing her. What I am trying to say is—I have regretted my failure in Nan Dungortheb on so many counts, because of what came after, and now all the more that I realize you love her. But _there is a way to redeem all this_. Irissë’s first marriage was a mistake, a tragedy—the Valar themselves would not deny that she, more than any other of the Eldar before or since, has valid grounds for a dispensation, even more perhaps than Nerdanel did. She was bewitched by dark spells, tricked into marriage—”

“You believe that as well? Do you really believe a _nís_ as strongminded as her could be held against her will for fifty years?”

Ecthelion stared in some bewilderment and frustration at his friend. “I am on your side, for Eru’s sake! Irissë and I were never the best of friends, as you well know, but if she makes you happy, so be it. She should seek an annulment. Then you twain would be wed, and there would be no need to hide in the wilds like fugitives. You could come to Alcarinos, and govern the House of the Golden Flower again, and with your lady lawfully at your side. There are no more gates to shut her in—she would be free to come and go as she pleases. Neither need she shun us on account of Lómion—there is no ill will towards her in Alcarinos. None. No one holds Lómion’s treachery against her.”

Glorfindel sprang to his feet and looked down at Ecthelion with white fire sparking in his violet eyes again. “Do you think Irissë has any wish to go where the son she loves is hated? Do you think _I_ have any wish to go where Lómion is vilified still? There may be no hatred and bitterness among the majority, but neither is there love. And there is judgment. And condemnation!”

“How could one but condemn an act so heinous?” Ecthelion retorted in some surprise, getting to his feet himself. At that, the look on Glorfindel’s face grew so grim that Ecthelion was taken aback and regretted his words.

Glorfindel bent to pick up Ecthelion’s empty bowl and cup, and when he straightened, his face was calm once again.

“You speak with good intent, I know, Ecthelion. But you cannot understand. Come, I will show you your room. You must be looking forward to a good bath and a good rest in a proper bed after months in the wild.”

This was not the note on which Ecthelion wanted their talk to end, but Glorfindel’s tone was final. His fair face was shut and his violet eyes deeply upset.

“ _Hantanyet_ ,” the Lord of the Fountain said. He had not slept for a month, and it was true he was tired… he followed this new Glorfindel who was a stranger, feeling desolate.

Ecthelion’s sharp eyes took in the spare, classic interior of the home as they walked through it. An array of weapons was mounted on the walls. He noted spaces where pictures might have been removed. His eyes rested curiously on a smooth globe the size of a head that stood on a pedestal at the centre of the hallway, a tiny wisp of light dancing in its dark depths.

The large chamber he was shown to upstairs had a view of the lake as well. After Glorfindel closed the door behind him, Ecthelion tossed his cloak over a chair, ignored the tempting soft bed, and went out onto the balcony and leaned his elbows on the railing. His silver eyes were smouldering.

With an ache in his heart, he remembered the tiny elfling he had played with, disciplined, scolded, cuddled. He had not given up on the restive bundle of mischief when even Egalmoth and Rog had cursed and yelled and thrown up their hands in frustration. He loved that boy. His mischief had ever been an overflow of his wild energy, rather than naughtiness or rebellion. A sharp reprimand had always been sufficient to bring contrition to the large azure eyes, and at this moment Ecthelion acutely missed that sweet, innocent elfling. As Glorfindel had grown up, the child had become more than the son Ecthelion never had. He had become his _otorno_ , and his best friend. And now the Lord of the Fountain felt helplessly that he had lost him more truly than when they had been divided by the Sundering Sea.

For three millennia, Ecthelion had waited for his friend’s return. Four years ago, he had heard that the Lord of the Golden Flower had returned quietly to Aman—and mysteriously disappeared almost as soon as he disembarked from the ship. Ecthelion had waited, believing that Glorfindel would naturally seek them out at Alcarinos. After a half-year passed, Ecthelion had been perplexed. He had spoken to Idril and Eärendil, when they visited Alcarinos at Tarnin Austa. But mother and son would only say that they had met Glorfindel briefly on Tol Eressëa, and that he had looked well… but that he had then left… leaving no word of where he was going.

Ecthelion had then sailed to Tol Eressëa twice to speak to Turgon’s great-grandson and his household.

“Lord Elrond is not at home,” a grave, green-eyed elf in fine purple robes informed Ecthelion. “He is gone a-riding with Lady Celebrían.”

“I shall wait. When will he return?”

“Good heavens, I have no clue! The last time they went a-riding they vanished a month.”

“Tell him Ecthelion of the Fountain came to pay his respects. I serve his great-grandfather, Prince Turgon—”

“Ah, Lord Ecthelion!” The green-eyed elf beamed. “My family is of the House of the Fountain. What an honour! We shall have a feast!”

“Are you a friend of Glorfindel's?”

“Glorfindel!” huffed the elf. “Speak not of him to me. He was a thorn in my side, the bane of my life. Gwendir! Wine for Lord Ecthelion!”

When Ecthelion had come to a couple of days later, nursing a giant hangover, he had been on a small ship sailing back to the mainland, and his memories of the feast and all he had heard whilst in various stages of inebriation were exceedingly murky. The clearest memory had been the silly way most elves of the household had burst into song when asked any question pertaining to Glorfindel:

_Glorfindel brave, tra-la-la, Glorfindel fair,  
No truer gold, tra-la-la, than his bright hair…_

Ecthelion had returned a few months later.

“Ah,” said Erestor regretfully. “You just missed Lord Elrond. He is gone blackberrying with Lady Celebrían.”

“There are no blackberries on Tol Eressëa.”

“Well, dear me, I don’t know the names of all these new, strange Aman fruits yet. Those little, dark currants they like to eat with shaved ice and syrup here. Whatever-berrying. They are likely to stay in the woods of Alalminórë for ages. His sons? Off climbing the Pelóri this past year. Have some wine, Lord Ecthelion! A very fine vintage.”

This time, Ecthelion had declined the wine, but found that sobriety helped him no better. The household had crystal memories of everything Glorfindel had ever worn or eaten for breakfast, but all knew naught of his plans or whereabouts in Aman. And save for solemn Erestor, they all burst into song at the smallest excuse.

Ecthelion had left Tol Eressëa wondering how Glorfindel had survived the company of such idiots for so many millennia.

On his ride back to Alcarinos, he had puzzled over the rumours that had come west with travellers over the past few millennia, most of which were contradictory, and few of which he could give much credence to.

_They were mad for Glorfindel… hordes of females… and, at last, the poor ellon gave up the fight… numerous paramours among the Avari. And the edain. And the periain. And the naugrim…_

_Who told you that crap? Glorfindel never had the slightest interest in romance… the Celebrimbor affair was tragic… Silver-fist was besotted with the balrog slayer… gave him a comb of mithril. Of mithril!!... but the Fëanorian knew his love was hopeless, and it unhinged him… what followed was that whole disaster with Sauron and the rings…_

_Glorfindel never liked women… that much was obvious… I heard of a romance with the last king of Gondor… then alas! Eärnur vanished… ah well, the mortal would have died anyway, eventually. But poor Glorfindel never got over it…_

_Did you not hear? Glorfindel was in love… an Avarin elleth… left him for a Woodland King… oh yes, he was utterly distraught…_

_That’s orcshit… his true love was of Fëanorian descent… Maglor’s daughter no less… they had a big wedding… she spoke Quenya… smithed with the skill of Celebrimbor… cursed like grandsire Fëanor… she will never sail for Aman. She would know better than to come here… damned Fëanorians…_

_Wife? What wife? Glorfindel never married… Oh no… but he sired children… oh yes… with various edenith… one daughter slew the Witch-King…_

Variants of each of these rumours would surface every now and again. And in the past four years, there had been sightings of the legendary golden-haired hero. At Tirion, during _yestarë_. In the forests near Taniquetil, riding a silver horse. At Formenos, in a dark cloak.

And finally, this report from the hunters of the Hammer.

A huge scandal in Alcarinos had erupted, and aroused Turgon’s ire. It had taken Ecthelion a while to convince his prince not to send forth search parties to bring in the illicit couple. “You know your sister well. It will drive her to naught but fury and defiance should you command her. And Laurefindil… do you think aught less than fifty men could take on your best warrior, knowing his prowess? Let me go alone, and speak to them quietly. He will listen to me.”

Or so Ecthelion had thought. He had come here, half-hopeful, half-dreading what he would find. And the facts puzzled him. If one wished to conduct an illicit affair, why would one do it in the heart of Valian country? And in Oromë’s own woods? True, the Great Hunter loved both Aredhel and Glorfindel, but no vala, surely, would condone such unheard-of adultery, such depravity as was heard of only amongst the _edain_ …

Just then, Ecthelion’s exceptionally sharp ears heard voices. Very faint voices.

It was easy as breathing for the Lord of the Fountain. Up onto the balcony railing, onto the roof, and over the roof, lightly and soundlessly, till he was just near enough to make out the words. Sneaking around like this was not something he would normally have done. It completely went against his sense of honour. But he did it anyway. Because he had ridden out a thousand leagues and searched six months. Because he loved Glorfindel and needed to know more, needed to understand how to reason with him. And by the mountain of Manwë, he was not going back to face Turgon without the answers he had come for.

He dropped into a graceful crouch not far from the edge of the rooftop. The voices came from a window on the opposite side of the house from his room.

Aredhel was sounding reproachful. “Had you not gone to him, you would not be facing this dilemma. We agreed. No contact.”

“I know. I am sorry. But… you know what he means to me… once I saw him, I could not stay hidden…”

“And you bring him here.”

He sighed. “Would you have had me greet him then abandon him? He deserves better from me.”

“Well, it is done. So what now? Will you go with him?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Perhaps you should. You should not have to give up your people, your friends, your house.”

“I have given up nothing I regret,” Glorfindel’s voice said gently.  “We are happy here. We have all we need. Each other.”

“For how long? You are not by nature a creature of solitude, _melmenya_. You thrive in the company of many. You have always been the heart of the life and merriment at every feast. You should not forgo it because of me. A month or two of games… you would enjoy nothing more.”

“And what shall I reply to all their questions? I would rather be asked none and tell no lies.”

“You trust him?”

“With my life. You know that.”

“Then tell him _something_.”

“No. I wouldn’t do that to either of you. To let you be exposed, or to burden him with such a secret.”

“Not _everything._ _Something._ Tell him your lady is a shy, solitary creature of woods and shadows that shuns cities. Eru knows that is plausible enough. And not a lie.”

“And would you meet with him to lay at rest the gossip?”

Long pause. “No.”

A silence followed. “I will ask him to leave, tomorrow.”

“You think he will just ride away and leave you here, now he has found you?”

Glorfindel gave a wretched sigh. “I hope he will. If not, I will… have to make him leave. And I hope he will forgive me. Then we will leave this house, love, and start over again. And not be as careless in future. I should not have grown complacent and let the Hammers see us. I cannot believe I failed to notice them.”

“I do not wish to leave this house. What next? Caves?”

“Yes, why not? We would be much better hidden, and you would enjoy it.”

“We could stay here. He would never be able to find his way back through Oromë’s fence of protection without you leading him.”

“We would have to stay within the fence and never leave, then. Or we will be seen by yet others. How could we venture beyond to hunt?”

“Damn! I hate this! I hate hiding.”

“Are you ready to stop hiding, then, my love? Ready to face them all together with me?”

A sigh. “No…” After a silence, she added, “I know how much you love him. Do not quarrel with him because of me. Go with him at least for a season, and meet with all the lords.”

“No. What will I say when they ask about us? How could I bear the scandal and whispers behind my back? Above all, how could I face Turukáno? I could tell no lies that would hold up under scrutiny, and I have never been inclined to lie. You are my life now. We remain here. Together.”

“Very well...” Another sigh. “What other news did he bring?”

“Some Moles have asked forgiveness and been taken in by Rauco.”

A silence. “Well, many of them came from the Hammer to begin with. I am glad. The rest?”

“Mahtan has taken a few of his former apprentices. A fair number are with Aulë. The rest are… unaccounted for.”

“In hiding.”

“Very likely.” A more upbeat tone: “Salgant apparently is much improved.”

“Ah. Well, there was much to improve. And how do the lords occupy themselves?”

“The usual House duties. And they meet weekly for games.”

“What kind of games? The same we played at house meets?”

“All kinds. Even some creations of mine, apparently.”

“You and your games.” A short laugh. “Remember the time Turukáno sent word he would be two hours late for the Council meeting, and you made us play that ridiculous game whilst we waited?”

Ecthelion had been listening with increasing unease. Now, he felt the world spin for a moment.

“I did not ‘make’ anyone play! The lords agreed. And it was _not_ ridiculous! It was brilliant, for a game devised on the spot.”

“It was my first time seated in the Great Hall with the august Lords of Gondolin. I was stunned when the others agreed to your stupid game and started to remove their robes.”

“Not all. Salgant immediately sat out, remember? With your addition to the Council, we had an odd number for two teams. He loved you for giving him that excuse.”

“The look on the King’s face when he walked in and found his fine lords running around the Grand Hall of Council like rowdy elflings—it was priceless.”

“Turukáno blamed me. Immediately,” he said mournfully. “And gave me a severe reprimand before everyone.”

“And deservedly so. Though,”—a low chuckle—“it was obvious to all he was trying not to laugh.”

“ _You_ enjoyed yourself at any rate, for all you looked so dour and disapproving at the start.”

A snort of derision. “I did _not_ enjoy it. Childish idiocy. Unbefitting the dignity of the Lords of Gondolin. A waste of time. When I think of all the productive things I could have done had I returned to my forge—”

Glorfindel laughed. “Liar! You enjoyed it. I saw the unholy smile on your face as you tackled Galdor. And you were smirking as you armlocked Duilin. Admit it.”

“What were you doing watching me, when you should have been defending your position? No wonder Fountain’s team won in the end.”

“Keeping an eye on the new lord.”

“Why? Did Turukáno order you to? Hmm?”

There was the sound of a tussle and stifled laughter. “ _Ow!_ No! Just that as we lined up for the game you were scowling so darkly and giving me your death-glare. I felt much vindicated seeing you smile with such glee in the end.”

“ _Hmph!_ You exaggerate, as usual. I _never_ smiled with ‘glee’.”

“Well, you looked happy. Just for that brief moment.”

“‘Happy’ is also an overstatement. Maybe ‘satisfied’.”

A sigh of exasperation. “Very well. ‘Satisfied.’” Then tenderly, “But you _are_ happy _now_ , are you not?”

Indifferently, “Perhaps.”

Teasingly, “I know how I can make you happy.”

There were sounds of laughter and a scuffle, then a silence punctuated only by breathy murmurs.

 _All right,_ thought Ecthelion. _I am going to leave. Right now._

His body refused to budge.

“ _Mmmm_ … Should you not be preparing dinner?”

“I have time. Dinner is simple. And we still have page two hundred and three...” Both voices were breathless. A sudden, throaty laugh followed, and the sound of a door opening.

“No!” the other voice whispered. “Put me down! Here.”

“But our bed is just two doors away,” said Glorfindel, sotto voice.

“Too close. You know how sharp his ears are.”

“As it pleases my prince.” The door clicked shut, and was followed by a soft thud. “Tell me later if you’re ‘happy’... or just ‘satisfied’.”

Ecthelion visualized a body being pushed hard against wooden panelling. Began to visualize too many other things as sounds and smothered laughter floated up from the room. And as he had only cursorily scanned the table of contents of the book on connubial joy that he had passed to young Glorfindel on the beach of Nevrast, Ecthelion was wondering in some bewilderment: _What in Eä is page two hundred and three?_

Then Ecthelion heard a scrabbling sound on the roof tiles behind him.

_“Wuff!”_

Almost jumping out of his skin, Ecthelion turned.

There are innumerable things in Arda one does not expect to see on a rooftop in the middle of a forest. The Lord of the Fountain found himself looking at one of them.

A very young hound puppy the size of a large sheep was standing on the roof not far from him. It was as white as the fluffy clouds in the sky above them, its mouth open in a big, silly grin, tongue hanging out and tail wagging.

Ecthelion’s heart sank. Hoping that the couple in the room below were too engrossed in each other to take heed of anything up here, the Lord of the Fountain tried to speak soothingly to the pup’s mind to calm it down.

_There’s a good boy... let us keep very very quiet now…_

At his mind touch, the pup’s tail wagged even more delightedly and Ecthelion’s mind was assailed with happy doggy thoughts. _Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes! Play with me, yes, play with me!_

_Let’s be very calm now… sit, boy…_

Tail still wild with joy and thumping the roof, the puppy sank down heavily on its haunches. Ecthelion was just breathing a sigh of relief and edging away towards his room when a child’s sleepy voice sounded sweet and clear.

“Canyo? Canyo, where are you?”

And Ecthelion gaped as a tiny elfling in a white dress appeared on the roof behind the puppy, black hair tumbling down to her shoulders, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

Then she saw Ecthelion, and instantly her silver-grey eyes were huge and sharp in her little face.

“ _Wuff!”_ barked the puppy, still obediently sitting.

“Who are you?” demanded the tiny elfling imperiously. “What are you doing on our roof?”

As Ecthelion stood there speechless, the elfling commanded, “Go get him, Canyo!”

And with a wild scrabble of its oversized paws, the puppy launched itself at the Lord of the Fountain with the lightning speed that the hounds of Oromë were renowned for, his large forepaws landing on the lord’s chest.

Evading even an oversized puppy of the Valar might normally not have proven too hard for one of the foremost warriors of Gondolin. But as he was at that moment rather confused and emotionally distraught, and had not slept for a month, and had been caught completely off guard, his reflexes were not all they should have been. The weight of the pup sent him flying backwards. He fell hard onto the roof tiles and saw stars, slid down to the edge, and managed to stop just before the fifteen _rangar_ drop.

For all of half a second, that is, until the weight of the pup sliding down after him nudged him over the edge.

Dangling by his hands from the edge of the roof, Ecthelion found himself staring into the faces of a very dishevelled and half-naked couple who had come running to the window at the commotion.

They stared back aghast.

“ _Ecthelion!?”_ Glorfindel burst out incredulously, his beautiful face blushing with embarrassment and outrage.

Aredhel was clutching her white dress in front of her, just barely, and Ecthelion, who knew he should avert his eyes, found himself instead staring mesmerized at her delectable décolletage, and up to her pale shoulders and throat and her lovely face. 

_No. Not Aredhel._

Ecthelion’s bright silver eyes met the piercing gaze of liquid black obsidian eyes glinting with golden fire, and he almost let go of the roof edge.

The Lord of the Fountain cleared his throat. “ _Aiya_ , Lómion,” he said with a calm dignity remarkable for someone losing his grip as a giant puppy above slobbered over his fingers with a very wet tongue.

“ _Aiya_ , Ecthelion,” replied the black-haired beauty in a flat, expressionless voice. Her eyes were dazed with horror.

“ _Atto! Ammë!_ Look what I found!”

“Stay where you are, Alassë! Stay back from the edge!” Glorfindel called up to the roof.

 _“Wuff!”_ barked the puppy above as Ecthelion’s fingers slipped. His fellow balrog slayer caught him and hauled him into the room before he plummeted to the ground.

In a matter of seconds, Glorfindel and Maeglin managed to get sufficiently dressed for decency, and Glorfindel disappeared up onto the roof to get the puppy and his daughter back into the house by another way.

To their mutual dismay, Ecthelion and Maeglin found themselves alone with each other.

“Amusing, is it not?” said Maeglin drily, tugging her dress into place. “I assure you, Námo did not consult me beforehand.”

Ecthelion looked deeply uncomfortable, and faltered awkwardly, “You look… uhh, you look lovely.”

“Eyes away from the chest or I’ll break your knee, Fountain,” she muttered, flushing as she turned away and tried to pull her neckline higher.

Realizing only then that he had been staring, he looked away quickly. “Sorry, Mole.”

Ecthelion saw that they were in a weapons or training room of some sort. It was empty of furniture, save for a rack with some swords and staffs.

The silence between the two lords was thick and heavy with embarrassment and memories and accusation and guilt.

Now fully dressed, Maeglin turned to face him, her usually pale cheeks still tinged with pink. “Let us go downstairs. We shall meet Laurefindil there,” she said in a quiet voice.

As they walked down the corridor, keeping some distance between them, Ecthelion said abruptly, “I will not tell, have no fear. And I shall leave at once.”

Maeglin suddenly stopped and turned to look at the Lord of the Fountain. He halted and stared down into her black eyes.

“Do you not trust me?” said Ecthelion.

“I do.” She seemed to struggle within herself for a while, a frown on her lovely brow. Then she blurted it all out in a rush. “You are a good man, Fountain. We did not get along, but I always respected you. I—I am sorry. There is not a day I have not regretted—what happened—what I did—” In her mind she saw again the image from her dreams—Ecthelion sinking into the fountain with Gothmog, the crimson stain spreading through the waters. “I am not asking for forgiveness. I just wanted you to know—I am sorry.” Her voice faltered at the end, hating the utter inadequacy and futility of the words.

Ecthelion stood very still and his silver eyes were haunted by the memory of all those he had watched fall under fire and arrow, sword and spear. Good men. Friends. Innocents. All the deaths. Yes, they lived again now, but the agony, the bloodshed, the cries of death, the horror… the memories were as real as yesterday. And the pain. His mouth hardened. He had forgiven everything in the Halls of the Dead, but elves never forget, and recollection brought back the anger—

A door flew open, and the puppy bounded out and hurled himself at Ecthelion, followed by Glorfindel carrying the tiny elfling.

“Getting that puppy back down was a nightmare! _Canyo! Sit!_ Are you all right, Ecthelion? They climbed up the tree by their balcony. There is a huge, sloping bough running like a road up to the roof.”

“It is surprising they did not find it earlier—and that we failed to notice it,” said Maeglin, taking the child into her arms.

“The tree has had a magical growth spurt. We fed it too well. I had better stop singing to it.”

The tot was glaring at Ecthelion as he got back gracefully to his feet, wiping puppy slobber off his face with his sleeve. Silver eyes met silver.

Alassë? The Lord of the Fountain thought he had never met a child more badly mis-named.

They all went downstairs in uneasy silence, the puppy’s wagging tail flailing wildly and his huge, clumsy paws sliding down the steps.

On the terrace by the lake, the three Lords of Gondolin found themselves unable to look each other in the eye.

“I should go,” said the Lord of the Fountain helplessly.

“Oh, no, no, no!” both the Lords of the Golden Flower and the Mole protested almost in unison.

“Stay for the night, please!” said Glorfindel.

“Have a seat,” said Maeglin.

In a daze, Ecthelion seated himself on the same couch he had taken earlier, and Glorfindel and Maeglin sat side by side on a couch across from him. Maeglin half-buried her face in her child’s soft raven hair.

“Your secret is safe with me,” said Ecthelion.

“We know,” said Maeglin.

“We owe you an explanation,” said Glorfindel. He sheepishly took a luminous gold ring out of a pocket in his leggings and slipped it back onto his right forefinger. Ecthelion looked at it, and the matching gold ring on Maeglin’s finger.

“How long have you two been...” Ecthelion began.

“Almost two hundred _coranári,_ ” said Glorfindel.

“One hundred and ninety-four, to be exact,” said Maeglin.

“I am five,” said the elfling.

 _I need a drink_ , thought the Lord of the Fountain.

With the elfling there, it was impossible for the adults to talk about anything that was weighing on their minds. The sun was beginning to set, and flooded the terrace with soft, rosy light. The puppy sat by Ecthelion’s feet, gazing up at him adoringly and licking his face with an extremely wet tongue. He managed somehow to maintain his calm and poise. He scratched the head of the puppy and it collapsed in a heap onto his feet, whimpering with bliss.

“Is—is he one of Oromë’s hounds?” he said, breaking the awkward silence.

“Yes,” said Glorfindel. “Oromë gave him to us. He is completely devoted to Alassë.”

“He likes you,” said the elfling, looking jealous and resentful as she glowered at Ecthelion. As the puppy licked the lord’s hand, the elfling said meaningfully to Ecthelion, “Canyo is hungry. Canyo is always hungry.”

Maeglin abruptly got to her feet with her daughter in her arms. “I will bring Alassë to play on the lakeshore, and let the two of you talk—”

Just then, a carefree voice familiar to all three of them came lilting on the air.

 _Oh paint for me the full moon_  
_Sing for me the trees_  
_Whisper me the golden leaves_  
_Sighing on the breeze…_

Canyo scrambled to his feet and shot off towards the woods. The song and voice grew louder and closer.

 _Oh catch for me the full moon_  
_Race me ’neath the trees_  
_Fly with me like golden leaves_  
_Dancing on the breeze…_

And sauntering out of the forest with the puppy gambolling around her was the White Lady of the Noldor clad in a flowing silver dress, her bow and arrows on her back, two squirrels swinging from her hand, and a straw basket over her other arm.

Aredhel’s bright silver eyes surveyed the group which was now walking towards her from the porch, and her eyebrows lifted. “Eh- _te_ -li-on!” she called musically, drawling out the Quenya name of the half-Telerin warrior. “Well, this is a surprise. What brings you to these parts?”

“My eyes are gladdened to see you once again, Princess Írissë.”

“And mine to see you.” She smiled brightly. “You have not changed one bit, Ehtelion!”

Aredhel was almost the only one who insisted on using the Lord of the Fountain’s less-preferred Quenya name. To annoy him, he suspected. She showed her daughter the heap of mixed berries in her basket, and kissed her granddaughter. “Why, precious! When did you wake up?”

“ _Amil_ , why did you leave her alone?” Maeglin’s voice was fond but also exasperated.

“She was sleeping so soundly,” said Aredhel, kissing her daughter with a smile, “and Canyo was with her—”

“He is not Huan yet, _Amil!_ He is but a puppy. He cannot take care of a child.”

“Well, nothing happened, did it?” Aredhel said, as Glorfindel took the squirrels from her hand.

“He went onto the _roof_ , and she followed.”

“Really?” Aredhel was more interested than alarmed. “And?”

“They almost pushed Ecthelion off the roof—”

“What was Ehtelion doing on the roof?” said Aredhel as Ecthelion blushed crimson. “And how did one of my brother’s best warriors almost let a five-year-old and a puppy kill him?”

“Never mind that,” said Maeglin hurriedly. “The important thing is Alassë could have been hurt, _Ammë_.”

“The important thing is she was not.” Aredhel lovingly ruffled Maeglin’s hair, then popped a blueberry into Alassë’s mouth, to the tot’s delight.

“No harm done, _melmenya_ ,” said Glorfindel, soothing the former prince of Gondolin by pulling her to him with an arm round her waist, and planting a tender kiss on her lips.

Ecthelion added that to the list of things he could not unsee and unhear that day.

“And did you two children manage to enjoy yourselves?”

“Yes, _Ammë._ We are always grateful when you babysit Alassë. Do not think I am not.”

Aredhel grinned fondly at Maeglin, and stroked her cheek. “You were always such a serious child. The Flower here is good for you.”

Maeglin smiled wryly but lovingly at her mother. Just then, a long, lilting whistle pierced the air. Canyo rushed off again into the darkening forest.

“ _At-to! Am-më!”_ sang out a melodious, cheerful voice. “We are ho-ome!”

“So much for the surprise,” said a quieter voice.

“Oh, _that_ would have surprised them, all right,” said the first.

Two riders emerged from the forest, bathed in the fading roseate light of the sunset. The first young elf had white-gold hair that streamed silken in the wind as he rode. He leapt off the back of his horse, but became still as soon as he saw Ecthelion, his blue eyes curious, and uncertain. Canyo gambolled around him and almost knocked him over. The second rider, seeing Ecthelion early, dismounted behind the first and walked quietly up. The second had hair almost the same shade of gold as Glorfindel’s, and his grey eyes were calm and alert.

“Ecthelion,” said Glorfindel. “These are our sons, Arman and Arinnáro.”

A current of excitement sparked and flowed between the twins, and they both moved forward and spoke at the same time, hero worship shining in their eyes.

“The one and only Ecthelion?”

“ _Atto’s_ best friend!”

“You slew Gothmog!”

“By Tulkas, you slew more balrogs than _Atto_!”

“ _Atto_ and _Ammë_ told us all about you!”

“You taught _Atto_ sword fighting!”

“I am delighted to meet you both,” said Ecthelion, feeling the events of the day grow yet more surreal.

“We did not look to see you for at least another month,” said Maeglin, as she and Glorfindel went forward to embrace their sons. Canyo began to tear around happily, feeling the air charged with excitement.

“Not sent away in disgrace, I hope?” said Glorfindel jokingly as he hugged them.

“Of course not!” said Arman.

“My big boys! We are going hunting tomorrow!” said Aredhel, pulling both twins to her in a powerful hug that left them grinning.

“But we saved the biggest surprise for last,” said Arman with a grin. And both the twins turned their heads to look back at the forest.

Standing there under the trees quietly, next to his silver stallion, was Finrod, and next to him his consort Amárië sitting on a grey palfrey. They smiled as they gazed with pleasure upon the gathering before them.

“It is good to see you again, Ecthelion,” said the prince as he walked forward. Finrod often visited Turgon at Alcarinos, and he had known Ecthelion since the Years of the Trees.  “Thank you for raising my son.”

Ecthelion was dazed as the golden prince embraced him warmly. “Prince Findaráto… your… your son?” The Lord of the Fountain looked at Finrod, then down at Amárië as she kissed him on the cheek, then at Glorfindel, and looked utterly bewildered and overwhelmed.

“ _Atar_ , Ecthelion and I need to talk,” Glorfindel said apologetically.

“Of course,” said Finrod with a smile at his son and the visitor. He took Alassë from his law-daughter and niece Maeglin after greeting his cousin Aredhel casually. The elfling wrapped her tiny arms tightly around the prince’s neck and planted a big kiss on his cheek. Then laughing and talking, the descendants of Finwë began to troop into the house. Aryo took the squirrels from Glorfindel’s hand. Arman took two wineskins from his saddle, and passed one to Glorfindel with a wink.

“I shall join them,” said Maeglin quietly to Glorfindel, and was about to kiss him when she stopped herself. She gave a small bow to Ecthelion, and disappeared into the house with her son’s arm around her shoulder.

Glorfindel handed a cup of wine to Ecthelion. They stood on the terrace side by side, looking out at the lake and drinking.

And by the silvery light from the stars and the white radiance of a hunter’s moon, Glorfindel began to tell his friend of the rainy night in Middle Earth that a black-eyed maiden had been found by a border patrol.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Alcarinos [Q] – glorious/radiant city

Lossendol [Q] – snowy-head, snow-top

Otorno [Q] – sworn brother

 

* * *

_Hi all! Work has been super tough, the past two weeks, but I finally took some time out to finish this. I had rough scenes of (1) Elrond explaining to a happily-tipsy and not-too-disappointed Turgon that Maeglin had left the island; (2) Eärendil putting two and two together and realizing who Maeglin is, and reasoning as he talks to his mum Idril that the traitor was a new person now who deserves a second chance, and that he saw how in love Glorfindel and Maeglin were; and (3) last of all, the reunion between Aredhel and Maeglin. But really, the scenes were clunky and didn’t move the story along, and I wanted this chapter to be just Ecthelion’s POV._

_But for those who really, really want it, here’s a snippet:_

Four years ago, Glorfindel had led his wife and baby daughter into the woods, seeking Oromë. And finally, one twilight, the mighty vala had loomed before them on his white horse Nahar, his great stag-horned helm upon his head. And he had not been alone.

They had just dismounted and stepped forward towards the vala when there was a ringing cry from the shadowed woods.

“Lómion! _Yonya!”_ And a raven-haired whirlwind in white hunting clothes had swept down upon Maeglin and hugged her so tightly her breath was crushed out of her. “So much more lovely than I even dreamed. I think there was always a part of me that _knew_ you would make a beautiful, beautiful girl!”

Whatever Maeglin had imagined her reunion with Aredhel would be like, she could not have anticipated this. “ _Ammë?_ ” she had whispered, stunned, clinging on to her mother.

“Oh, my sweet boy. Why, you were the best of sons, but now _perfect_ as a daughter, _pitya_. You are a little shorter than I, but we can still share clothes! What fun we shall have!” And she had rumpled the black hair with a careless tenderness. “What is this now? Tears? Shush, _yonya_. Why, I have hardly ever known you to cry for anything, not even that time you fell out the tree and broke your leg… or that time your pet faun was eaten…” And most certainly not all the times Eöl had let fall his heavy fist upon his son.

Glorfindel had stood by smiling at Oromë’s side, holding the baby in his arms, looking on and allowing his love this moment with her mother. Finally, Aredhel had turned with a grin to the balrog slayer. “ _Aiya,_ Lauro! Are you not going to greet your new mother? And a baby! Námo did not tell me about the baby. How precious. Why, she looks just like me…”

And as Glorfindel and Maeglin had built their house on the lake shore with the blessing of Oromë, the White Lady had taken the baby on long rides, and pampered her thoroughly, and managed not to lose her granddaughter in the woods more than once.

 

_That’s all for now. Love all of you wonderful people, and am looking forward to what you think about this—even the critical feedback. All of you have been so very, very kind so far, but it’s fine if you dislike some things, and it’s good for me to know it—even if I still stand by what I have written._

 


	40. From the Mouths of Babes

It was late afternoon when Ecthelion awoke and descended the stairs of what seemed to be an empty house.

All was silent, save for the whisper of raindrops outside, and the wind rushing through the trees. Rain in Aman oft fell thus, from small drifts of grey clouds through which rays of sunlight slanted still, illuminating the shimmering drops as they fell like diamonds to the waiting earth. Through the open door at the end of the hall, Ecthelion saw soft sunlight illuminate the porch where he had spoken with Glorfindel the previous evening. The two friends had talked till midnight, then gone for a sail on the lake to clear their heads before retiring well before dawn.

At the centre of the hallway, Ecthelion paused by the pedestal upon which sat the mysterious crystal globe with the swirls of darkness and light dancing at its heart. He had not asked Glorfindel about it, for there had been so much else to speak of, so much else to ponder. The Lord of the Fountain’s silver eyes watched the dancing wisp of light in it for a while, mesmerized. _Could it be...?_

A low, dulcet voice came from behind him and he almost jumped out of his skin. “Yes. It is a palantír.”

He spun round and saw Maeglin behind him, standing before an open door along the hallway. She had moved so silently that even his keen ears had heard nothing. _That much has not changed,_ he thought, annoyed that she must have seen him startle. He remembered numerous occasions the prince had crept up on him thus soundlessly in Gondolin, and the sly, sardonic smile that had curled his lips when Ecthelion whirled around.

_“Mole, you have to stop sneaking up on people like this. What if one day I put my fist in your face—or, Eru forbid, my knife through you—before I can think?”_

_A raised eyebrow. “Nervous, my Lord Fountain? Are we not safe in our city, and friends among friends? And I would trust your swift eye to know me ere your swift hand touches me.”_

_“I have seen far more death and battle than you, cundunya.” Lammoth. The Dagor Aglareb. The monsters of Nan Dungortheb…_

_Alqualondë…_

_The nightmares came still._

_“I trust my reflexes to stay my hand less than you do. Do that again at your peril.”_

Ecthelion had suspected the prince to have something of a death wish, for he had proceeded to do it several times thereafter.

He tried not to stare now at the _n_ _ís_ before him. The passageway she had emerged from must have led from a forge, for she wore a heavy leather apron over grey breeches and a knee-length green tunic with the sleeves folded up to her elbows—and somehow the masculine attire only highlighted her femininity all the more. Ecthelion had a double vision of the Lord of the Mole before him, half a head taller, muscular and broader in shoulder, thicker and more sinewy in neck and arm. But just so had the Mole tied back his black hair, and just so had sweat-damp, dark tendrils of stray hair clung to the pale skin of his neck and brow…

There was a moment of awkwardness between the two lords once again as her obsidian eyes met his silver ones.

“If it is a palantír, I have not seen its like before,” he said at last. “The others are larger… and they appear as solid stone when not in use. This is clear as spring water—and what light and shadow is it that lives in its depths even when idle?”

“Our son Arinnáro made it, in our third year in Aman. It is largely his own design, conceived in Endórë.”

In the Second Age, the gift of palantíri to Númenor had been an act of supreme generosity by the Eldar, for they were rare treasures in Aman itself. All in all, the stones in the Blessed Land numbered less than sixty. Most households of Eldarin royalty boasted one, and so did those of a number of lords, ladies, scholars, and craftsmen of the three kindred. There had, of course, been palantíri among the Noldor in Beleriand, brought into exile by the Fëanorians, but not one of those had survived and returned to Aman.

The Noldor made them still in Valinor, but rarely. The making of each palantír remained a costly and tedious process that took years and consumed much strength, even though Fëanor had seemed to swiftly churn them out with almost casual disdain. The fiery one had left huge gaps in the notes recovered from Formenos that not been filled even three long ages since his demise.

Maeglin stepped forward to Ecthelion’s side and gazed at the stone. “Findaráto acquired a copy of Fëanáro’s documents for Arinnáro, and it unlocked for him the missing parts of the process he had been working on for years. He has made five of them thus far. This is one of the three larger ones. The other two are merely the size of your fist. He has done what Curumo and even Sauron himself could not—and he is not even a _y_ _én_ old!” And she smiled.

It was not an extraordinary smile—not the dazzling sunrise of Glorfindel’s smiles, nor the glowing sweetness of Idril’s—but Ecthelion was astonished by it. It was not sardonic nor cynical, nor sly nor cool nor mocking. It was a warm smile of motherly pride that completely disarmed him. Then it faded and she eyed him a little warily.

“And by this… you could connect with any other palantír in Aman?” he asked.

“Yes, we could. But for obvious reasons we do not. This stone has been used mostly to speak with its sister stones. The other two larger ones are in Avallonë and Valmar.”

“I can guess with whom.”

“The smaller ones are for travel. Our sons carry one. The last is… with a friend.”

“And have you shrouded these so that no other palantíri may discern them?”

“Yes. And we have warning, if another stone comes seeking that is not of our circle. The colour signature at its heart changes.”

“Would it surprise you to know that Turukáno now has a palantír?”

“Really?” A black eyebrow arched, and there it was—that old sly, sardonic lifting of the corner of her mouth. _So much changed, yet so much the same._ “And was it his own idea?”

There had never been a palantír at Gondolin or Nevrast. Turgon had wanted nothing crafted by the elf he most hated, even if it meant slower communications with the other realms by messenger bird. And he had trusted the secret of his kingdom more to birds than to a treacherous ball that might give others an eye into his realm, no matter what shrouding spells could be wrought.

Ecthelion smiled as well. “It was at Arafinwë and Nolofinwë’s insistence, mostly. But Elenwë and Turukáno soon saw the usefulness of having one, once it became apparent that… that Itarillë… would remain at Avallonë.”

An awkward silence fell again. Back in Gondolin, the Lord of the Fountain had guessed Maeglin’s secret even though Glorfindel had stalwartly kept it. The Fountain’s keen eyes had caught the briefest flashes of jealousy and despair and rage in the obsidian eyes when Tuor began to pay court to Idril, and understood. And all the Eldar knew it now, of course—knew with revulsion of the dark, forbidden lust for which a prince had betrayed a city and murdered a hundred thousand of his own people.

“Ah, Itarillë…” sighed Maeglin, shaking her black hair loose from its tie. She removed her heavy apron and tossed it with unerring aim to hang on a hook on the wall behind her. “My sweet _Amya_ Itarillë.” Her smile was both mocking and rueful as she turned back to him. “Fear not, Ecthelion. I can bear the mention of her name.”

Ecthelion smiled himself, stifling a laugh. “ _Amya?”_

“There is only one person in Arda whom I will ever call _Amil or Amm_ _ë_. Hence, Itarillë and I eventually agreed I should address her as…  _Amya_. Amárië is _Mily_ _ë._ You cannot imagine how thankful I am that I do not have to call Tuor _Atya_.” She clasped her hands behind her back, pushed back her shoulders, and stretched to relieve her body’s tension and weariness from her work at the forge. “You ate naught, last night. Are you hungry, Fountain?”

“Well… yes. A little,” replied Ecthelion, acutely uncomfortable as he averted his eyes from the sweat-damp tunic clinging to her chest and gazed back at the palantír. He was perfectly indifferent to the number of females who flaunted their feminine charms at him monthly in Alcarinos. But that the one now flaunting a pair of shapely breasts at him had once been his fellow lord only heightened his awareness of her femininity.

“There is a leg of roast venison. And a fresh barley loaf, baked this morn. If you will wait on the porch, I shall bring it forthwith—”

“Mole—you do not have to—” Ecthelion said awkwardly.

“What, Fountain?” she smiled wryly. “Play good hostess?”

“Well… _serve_ me. Tell me where the food is to be found. I am able to help myself. You are… well, that is, you were… my prince—”

“ _Amm_ _ë?”_ came a small, fretful voice from the stairwell.

They turned and saw a small elfling standing at the bottom of the stairs, her little brow furrowed. She looked on the verge of tears.

Maeglin had unconsciously assumed the cool, acerbic tone she habitually used in Gondolin. Her voice now changed, softening and sweetening instantly. “Why, _winim_ _ë_ , did you have a bad dream?” And she went to the child and picked her up.

“Where’s Canyo? Canyo’s gone!” And Alassë glared at Ecthelion as though this was all his fault.

Maeglin sighed. “That dog. Alassë, Canyo must have gone out to play. He will return on his own.”

“But it is _raining!_ He hates being wet, _Ammë._ ” Angry and fearful tears spilled down her cheeks as she clung to her mother’s neck. “We must _find_ him!”

“Alassë, we are not going out into the rain to look for him. He is a hound of Oromë. Trust me. He will be fine.”

“But he might be _hurt_. Please, _Ammë_. The rain should have made him run back here. Something has happened, _Ammë_. Please, _Ammë_ , pleeeeeease.”

As Alassë wailed and kicked in her arms, Maeglin frowned in consternation. “ _Melimë_ , what is this behaviour?”

“It might reassure her if she is shown the hound in the palantír, Mo—milady,” said Ecthelion, catching himself in time. He could not bring himself to call her Lómiel.

Maeglin looked thoughtful. “I have not used it thus before, but…” Holding her daughter on her left hip, she reached out her right hand and touched the palantír. As her will directed it, the forest appeared in the globe. Alassë’s eyes were huge as she watched the trees and glades fly past at the heart of the crystal. At last, they heard the desolate howl of a puppy.

Ecthelion was startled. “It has… _sound?_ Do you speak into it with thought, or with voice? _”_

“Both,” said Maeglin a little tightly, focusing her strength on the search. “Ah… there he is.”

In a deep pit in the earth—formed by the accidental uprooting of a great tree by Tulkas, during a game the mighty vala had played with Glorfindel a year past—they saw Oromë’s pup. Its snowy coat was covered in black mud, and it whined pitifully as it tried in vain to climb up the slippery sides of the hole.

“Canyo!” cried the child, tears coming to her eyes. “Oh, my poor Canyo!”

The two lords exchanged a look. It was not too unlike some situations they had faced during the war games in Gondolin. “It will be the Ditches of Doom all over again,” said Ecthelion, in reference to the favourite trap dug by the Moles, into which many of the riders and foot soldiers of other houses had fallen.

“This is my retribution then,” Maeglin said wryly.

“I will come with you.”

 _A frail woman and child in need of his manly strength and succour._ Her lip curled mockingly. “How very gallant of you, _arquenya_.” _…my noble knight._ As he blushed red, she continued, “Make no mistake, this lady would be grateful for your aid. You had better have that venison and loaf before we leave—”

“ _Nooo_ -ooo!” wailed Alassë in horror at the proposed delay. “ _Now!_ We must rescue Canyo _now!”_

“Truly, I need no food. Where is your rope? Let us leave now,” said Ecthelion.

“ _No!_ I don’t want _him_ to come, _Ammë._ ”

“Alassë!” Maeglin exclaimed sharply. “How can you be rude to our guest—and after he has offered us his aid most generously?”

“We don’t need _him!_ We need _Atto.”_

Maeglin gritted her teeth and gave Ecthelion the abashed and apologetic look universally worn by parents who know their child is Behaving Badly. “Alassë, _Atto_ is busy today,” Maeglin said in a dangerously restrained voice. “I cannot do this without Ecthelion. If you are not going to behave yourself, you are going to your room and staying here whilst Ecthelion and I rescue Canyo. Am I clear?”

That made the tot fall silent at once, and nod her head.

Maeglin flushed in embarrassment as she glanced at Ecthelion. “She is not usually thus, Ecthelion. Pray excuse her behaviour.”

“It is no matter. The child is distraught,” said Ecthelion. “Let us away.”

As Maeglin took up some rope and they swiftly donned their cloaks, Ecthelion asked the question that had been nagging at him. “Where _is_ Lauro… and everyone else?”

“The two boys and their grandparents left early for Oromë’s halls… and Lauro was whisked away by a surprise visitor this morning. Eru alone knows when he will be returned.”

Ecthelion looked curious. “Be returned?” he asked, as they stepped into the glittering mix of sunshine and rain.

 

Above the low-lying rainclouds, on the windswept heights of a rocky ridge, Glorfindel staggered backwards from the force of his opponent’s parry, and fell to one knee. A heartbeat, then he swung his shining blade upwards and blocked a downcut, and was on his feet again with a laugh.

It had been two long ages since Glorfindel had faced any whose sword skill was swifter and deadlier than his own, and whose bodily strength far exceeded his. As he went on the offensive, the blindingly brilliant blade of his opponent parried his every lightning stroke as one who could almost read his mind, and he keenly felt the threat of danger and death in every strike and slash and step he made. It had been a long time since Glorfindel had felt so challenged… so _alive_ in all his senses.

It was fortunate that his opponent had no intention of killing him.

The greatest swordsman in Eä smiled approvingly as the elf before him recovered from the attack and lunged at him. The swordsman’s hair was a swirling blaze of orange-red and white-gold, like the molten lava at a volcano’s heart, and his eyes were flame.

 _Lachend_ , the Sindar had named the Noldor upon their arrival in Beleriand… the _flame-eyed ones._ But that was only because no Sinda had yet beheld the armies of the War of Wrath or the one who would lead their vanguard.

For this duel, the one with eyes of true-flame had assumed a form and height similar to that of the elf before him, and he was dressed like the elf in light leather armour that allowed them both great freedom and ease of movement.

The combatants were on a mountain ridge, a sub-range of the Pélori branching out like a finger from the great mountains in the east. From there, they could see patches of raincloud and their shadows moving across the land. The great forest of Oromë lay below, stretching a thousand leagues to the north. Where the cities and dwellings of Eldamar lay was marked by the tiny, glittering snow-peak of Taniquetil, rising above the rest of the Pélori. Vast green meadows spread out to the west of Oromë’s woods. Mandos shone white atop blue hills in the furthest west. The gardens of Lórien, nestling tiny in green woods far below it, were not visible even to the sharpest elven eyes, only to the one with eyes of flame.

The maia locked blades with the golden-haired elf, drove him back against a rock, and pinned him there.

“Do you yield?” thundered the Herald of Manwë with a fearsome smile as he pushed his blade, and Glorfindel’s, towards the elf’s throat.

Bent backwards over the rock, straining and trembling under the inexorable pressure of the blades, Glorfindel strove to slide his sword’s crossguard beneath Eonwë’s—a futile manoeuver, for he could not hope to be swift enough to surprise the maia. He thus expected it when Eonwë took advantage and wrenched the hilt out of his hands, almost sending the weapon plummeting off a cliff.

Swifter than elven eye, Eonwë moved to catch the Valinor-forged sword and turned back to his best pupil. “Years in the mortal lands have weakened you.” The maia shook his head as he tossed the sword back to the elf, who had wearily rolled back onto his feet.

The break in rhythm had undone Glorfindel. The tide of adrenalin that had sustained him for the last nine hours suddenly ebbed away. The elf barely found the strength to catch and sheath his sword before stumbling back against the rock and sliding down against it. He sat breathless on the high ridge, gasping at the thin mountain air, his eyes glazed over with exhaustion.

The maia came to sit by him, still in his elf-like form, and dimmed his glorious light till he appeared no more than a copper-haired _ellon_ with golden eyes. He eyed the wounds and bruises the elf had sustained. “You did well enough,” said the maia, his voice now almost gentle. “Another _y_ _én_ or so, and you should be as strong as you once were.” A finger reached out to trace the cuts on the elf’s face, leaving healed flesh in its wake.

Glorfindel did not move till the maia finished with his face, then he wearily turned his head and watched as the maia healed the superficial wounds inflicted where the armour joined. “Lord Eonwë… why would you train me now? There can be no new mission to Endórë. Is the Battle of Battles soon to come?”

Eonwë raised his eyebrows. “Train? Do you imagine that is the sole reason I deigned to spar with you, two ages past?”

Glorfindel gave a lopsided, rueful grin. “At that time, since there could have been no challenge in it for you, and I knew naught of my mission then, I thought you took a sadistic pleasure in trouncing me to within an inch of my life.”

The maia chuckled, and the whole mountain seemed to rumble. “You learned from it well. I hear you disciplined your warriors in Endórë harder than ever you trained the Vanyar for the War of Wrath.”

“I did have a hope, however, that you sought me as well for the pleasure of my company…”

“That too, little elf. I grew fond of you, during the War of Wrath. I always thought you should have been appointed Commander of the Vanyar in the place of the Ingwion.”

“I did not wish it. I am no Vanya.”

“And yet in the end you were their Commander in all but name.”

The High King’s son had of course been the Commander of the Vanyarin host. Gentle poet, scholar and peace-loving prince, Ingolmo Ingwion had been ill-suited to it, and both his father and Eonwë had known it. An aide-de-camp was assigned to the prince. Glorfindel had been Ingwion’s herald and protector on the battlefield, squire and counsellor in his tent.

When after the first battles Ingwion had at last been able to retire to his tent, he had been violently and wretchedly sick. Glorfindel had cleaned it up wordlessly, handed him a cup of watered wine to drink, and matter-of-factly begun to remove the prince’s armour.

“It is like that, the first time, _Aranion_. It will get better.”

Ingwion had eyed Glorfindel sceptically, his cheeks still flushed with shame. “Did you puke like a baby as well, your first time?”

“All over Ecthelion of the Fountain’s new boots. You can ask him about it one day.” A skirmish in Dor-lómin. Glorfindel had been a boy of thirty-seven. He had slain seven orcs—or so the other elves told him. He had no memory of it save the stench, and the blood. Black blood and entrails everywhere… on his clothes, and his blade, and his bright hair…

Two-thousand-years-old Ingwion had drained his cup then sunk his slender frame dejectedly on the edge of his bunk. “Were it not for the honour of my father and my house, Laurefindil, I would make you Commander in my place, and send you out in my armour and on my horse to lead my host.” He shook his golden hair free of his helmet as Glorfindel knelt to remove the princely greaves. Ingwion had gazed at his aide-de-camp, arrayed still in his own armour. “They would gladly follow you, a true hero, into the fray. I am sick to the depths of my _f_ _ëa_ at these horrors. And my heart warns me there are long years of this madness to come.”

“No one is born a hero. You become one by the choices you make. Your people need you to give them heart. They are scared as you are. And hate this fighting as you do.”

“I do not have the heart to be a hero, much less give heart to any other.”

Glorfindel had put his hands on the prince’s shoulders, and his azure eyes had blazed with fire as he looked into the Vanya’s desolate grey-green eyes. _“There are a hundred thousand Vanyar encamped out there,_ ” Glorfindel said in thought, _“and they need their Commander to put fire in their hearts. Together, we will be the hero they need. I will think for both of us in battle. I will have heart enough for both of us, courage enough for both of us… till you find yours._ ”

Outside of Ingwion’s tent, Glorfindel never seemed to be more than a step away from the prince. His kept his helmet and armour on beyond the tent, so none other of the Eldar ever fully saw his face, only the glitter of azure eyes within his helm, and his wondrously luminous Vanyarin hair streaming down his back. _Calimalaimo,_ the hosts of Aman had called Glorfindel. _Ingwion’s bright shadow._ Over the forty years of dreadful war, the prince and his bright shadow had become friends and closer than brothers. But once back in Valinor, Ingolmo Ingwion had gladly laid down his sword, and his mysterious aide had vanished. Then many Vanyar whispered that the warrior had been a guardian maia disguised among them. Ingwë’s heir had then ascended Taniquetil, put on the plain white robes of the Consecrated, and contemplated the sacred mysteries of the Flame Imperishable. And not descended since.

The Herald of Manwë stood and pulled Glorfindel to his feet. “It rains still, over your abode. Would you join me for a flight?”

“I should go home…I have a guest.”

Already Aikanamma the great eagle, kin to Sorontar, had swept in with a rush of vast wings.

“And you are mine,” said the maia, leaping onto the eagle’s back. “Come, and be refreshed.”

It had been a long time… Glorfindel hesitated for only a moment, then smiled as he climbed onto the eagle’s back, seated himself behind the maia, and they took off into clear skies.

 

A breathtaking double rainbow glowed in the sky as the three elves returned at last to the house with the puppy. They were a woefully bedraggled bunch. The puppy that had once been snow-white was now black and brown with mud. They were all coated in mud. This might be Aman, but mud anywhere is still mud.

Maeglin had descended into the pit to tie the rope around the pup, Ecthelion remaining above to hoist it up. So wildly excited and relieved was the pup at being rescued that it leapt upon her as she landed on the pit floor, and losing her footing in the slippery mud, she went down heavily into it, the giant pup on top of her.

“Lómion! Are you hurt?” Ecthelion had exclaimed ere he could think.

“Only my pride,” Maeglin had grunted, as she sat up caked in mud, and tried to fend off the paws and huge, slobbering tongue of a puppy ecstatic at having been found.

“You _don’t_ call her _L_ _ómion!”_ the indignant tot had shrilled at the Lord of the Fountain. “You _don’t_ call her _Mole!_ My _Amm_ _ë’s_ name is _L_ _ómiel!_ _L_ _óm-iel!_ You stupid piece of _muk_! _Heca!_ You should _never_ have come here!”

After a silence of three heartbeats broken only by the puppy’s barks, a voice had emerged from the pit that was all the more terrible and no less penetrating for being quiet—and as chilly as the Helcaraxë. “Alassë Artalissë Mirimë. Apologize to Lord Ecthelion. _Now.”_

Ecthelion had watched as the child’s little mouth quivered then set in a familiar, stubborn line. “No.”

“Your behaviour has been execrable. _Apologize._ Or you are staying in your room for the next week.”

That prospect was a fate close to death for the active child. Her chin had wobbled, but her lower lip had jutted out. “Won’t.”

“Alassë, I will not call your _Amm_ _ë_ Lómion again,” Ecthelion had said quietly. “You are right. That was stupid of me. Lómion is a name for a _n_ _ér._ Not a _n_ _ís_ like your _Amm_ _ë_.”

“That’s _right._ And _no one_ can call _Amm_ _ë_ ‘Mole’—except _Atto.”_

“Very well. I won’t call her ‘Mole’.”

“I await that apology still, _anelya,_ ” said the grim voice from the pit.

“I do not think that is going to happen anytime soon, _herinya_ ,” said Ecthelion, eyeing the stubborn mouth and chin of the tot. “Allow me to get you and the dog out of there first.”

It took them the better part of an hour to hoist the puppy out of the ditch, whereupon Canyo covered Ecthelion and Alassë with an amount of mud almost equal to what Maeglin was soaked in.

It was a silent and sober procession back to the house, by which time the rain had stopped. The double rainbows arched across the heavens as they came to the pebbled shore of the lake and began to wash off mud.

As Ecthelion did his best to wrestle a gigantic puppy who did _not_ want a bath into the shallows, Maeglin washed the mud off her daughter as well as she could. She then knelt before the child and looked her straight in her sulky silver eyes. “Go straight back to your room now, wash yourself well with soap and warm water, and change into dry clothes,” she said sternly. “The punishment stands. You will stay in your room until you apologize to Lord Ecthelion. I will talk with you later.”

Back very straight and small head held high, Alassë turned and walked proudly back to the house.

Maeglin went to Ecthelion’s aid, wading out into the shallows, where Canyo, trembling and tail between its legs, was whining loudly and pathetically. The Lord of the Fountain had the puppy in a headlock, and was washing mud from its ears. She saw that Ecthelion had fashioned a rope harness similar to the one they had used to hoist the puppy earlier, and had now tethered the puppy to a tree growing by the waters. She began to scrub the puppy’s haunches.

“Say it. I know you are thinking it. _A brat begets a brat…_ ”

Ecthelion’s fair face gave nothing away. “All I thought was that she would never have learned those curse words from Laurefindel,” he said mildly.

She muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like another curse. “I took such great care with my language within her hearing… or so I thought.”

“I have served the house of Nolofinwë all my life. The child is of that line. Proud and bold of spirit as they come.”

“Ecthelion, I assure you this is not her usual behaviour. I was appalled.”

“I have a way of bringing out the worst in some members of your house, obviously.”

The wry smile touched a corner of her mouth briefly, then she frowned. “That outburst… it was inexplicable. What in Eä could have gotten into her?”

“Your uncle Arakáno was Alassë’s age when Fëanáro and Finwë left Tirion for Formenos, and your grandfather took up the duties of the Noldóran. Arakáno was the baby of the family, his _Atar’s_ darling—and all of a sudden, _Atar_ was not free to play. There were matters of state to attend to, and petitioners and plaintiffs all day. The child began to throw tantrums. In the throne room during audiences, most memorably. After he shot a representative of the weavers’ guild with a catapult, he was banished to Turukáno’s household, where I helped his brother babysit him for a Valian year… a _very_ long Valian year.” He untied the rope harness. Canyo scrambled eagerly onto the shore, and showered them with lakewater as it shook itself violently, before bounding up to the house.

Maeglin wiped dog-spray from her face. “What has this to do with Alassë? Her _Atar_ and I are still here. She has no lack of attention from us, or her brothers, or her grandparents…”

“Children abhor certain changes and disruptions to their lives. I am clearly one such.” Ecthelion coiled the rope, and passed it to her. “Now, _herinya_ , if you will excuse me, we have ourselves to wash.” And truly, she had never seen elegant, impeccably-groomed Ecthelion as dishevelled and filthy as he was now—not even in the midst of battle at the Nirnaeth, when he had been covered, as they all had been, with dust and enemy blood. The mudstains might never wash out of that costly embroidered tunic, she thought ruefully.

He turned and waded away from her.

“You have nothing I have not already seen, Fountain,” she could not resist calling after him as he vanished into the neighbouring inlet behind some rocks.

“And that which you have, I have already seen too much of, _herinya_.”

She reddened a little at that. Then began the long task of rinsing copious amounts of mud out of her long tresses.

“Ecthelion?”

“Yes, _herinya?_ ”

“Stop calling me that.”

“No, _herinya_.”

“Lómiel. Say it. Lóm-iel.”

“A bad idea. It is apt to change sex as I utter it.”

“What will you tell Turukáno on your return?”

Silence.

“That the rumours were untrue,” he said eventually. “That both your mother and Laurefindil are blameless. And that the Golden Flower is wed to another.”

“Turukáno will ask why Laurefindil has not come to Alcarinos.”

“I know.”

“Listen. You swore to keep my secret. But I know your honour and what you owe your liege lord. Protect my family and avoid disclosure as best as you may, but I release you of the promise you made to me. Should he question you, and corner you, tell him the truth.”

After another long silence, Ecthelion said, “You are sure about this?”

“Would I prefer none knew the traitor has returned? Of course. But Laurefindil hates it that others lie for our sakes to protect us. And I have come to hate it because of him. We are far from Eldamar and will exile ourselves here if need be. Those who love us may seek us out. Those who hate me will shun us. So do not be torn between your love for Laurefindil and your loyalty and allegiance to Turukáno. Be free to speak as you must.”

“ _Hantanyel, herinya_.” And she heard the respect in his voice.

“And call me Lómiel.”

There was a sigh behind the rocks.

“…Lómiel,” he said finally.

“Much better,” she said wryly, as she peeled off her mud-stained clothes and immersed herself fully in the water.

“I have motivation of my own to uphold your secret.”

“And what might that be?”

“Who would not think me mad if I tell the truth?”

“The Lord of the Fountain is known for neither jests nor folly, but for sobriety and clear judgement. Who would disbelieve you?”

“There is not another has been born one sex and reborn another. They will think I ate a strange mushroom in the woods.”

“Let them. It might solve both our problems.”

A chuckle drifted from the next inlet. “That it might. Yet I do not see that the full truth would harm you. There would be understanding and compassion from many, and it would win you much forgiveness.”

“That I was Sauron’s puppet? There is still the matter of the betrayal itself. It is what it is and I make no excuses for it.”

“You were tortured.”

“So were many others in Angband. They did not break. I need no reminding that a frail, inferior _adan_ kept faith when I did not. I will not have Laurefindil’s glorious, golden legend bear any taint of my treachery. I know you would not wish that either. And I have children. I wish them the freedom to walk among the Eldar and forge futures for themselves free of my shadow. For those two reasons, Fountain, let it not be known that the traitor has returned.”

“I shall do my utmost, I assure you. And… Lómiel?”

“Yes?”

“You have truly changed.”

She laughed. “Don’t go soft on me, Fountain.”

“And the rest of this damnable mud is not coming out without soap. Are you decent? I think we should head back to the house.”

 

Ten leagues to the north-west, in a forest clearing, music filled the air as the Tawarwaith danced and sang beneath the double rainbow that adorned the sunset skies. The halls of Oromë, built of wood and stone, rose out of the forest behind them, and a feast was being prepared before the great entrance to the halls. The Great Hunter was still riding in the woods with his followers and friends, amongst them Lothuial of the Tawarwaith, and Finrod and Aredhel of the Noldor.

An aged dwarf was lying contentedly on a mat laid on the rain-damp grass, and snoring gently, a gentle smile on his face and his hands folded on his chest. Seated near him on another mat were a pair of twins, watching Legolas and Amárië dance with the other Silvan folk on the sward.

“Let us visit Alcarinos!” Arman urged his twin.

The previous evening, as Glorfindel and Ecthelion had spoken on the porch, Finrod had directed the palantír north and shown Turukáno’s shining city to his grandsons. Only Finrod possessed enough power to shroud them all safely as he bent the palantír to his will and ventured into the very heart of Eldamar. The young _n_ _éri’s_ thoughts were still full of images of the golden-lit white spires and towers against a sky full of stars, of golden _mellyrn_ and lush gardens hung with lamps like jewels, of the great fountain in the Square of the King, and, flying in the breeze over the city, the fair banners of the ten remaining Houses of Gondolin.

Aryo looked dubiously at his younger brother.

Soon after their arrival in Aman, Aryo had realized that even were Aulë willing to offer him an apprenticeship, he did not want to face the questions that the dozens of other elven smiths under the Vala were sure to ask about his parentage, about his Vanyarin golden hair—and, above all, about the mastersmith who had taught him his skills. He had resigned himself to pursuing his craft only in the smithy of their new house. And over the past four years, he and Arman had shunned Eldamar in the north and travelled some of the wondrous lands to the west and south of their home. Several of their journeys had been in the company of their golden-haired grandparents, who had delighted in showing them the beauties of many little-known places in Aman. Whenever they had chanced to meet edhil—and that had been rarely—the four of them had been assumed to be a Vanyarin family of parents and sons.

These edhil who dwelled far from Eldamar were mostly rebodied Nandor and Avari from various parts of Ennorath who felt little desire to join the cities of the Calaquendi, and had been drawn instead to make their new homes in the vast wilderness of lands governed by various Ainur, to whom they then submitted to as their lord or lady. In the forests, they came under the lordship of Oromë. In the fertile valleys, wide plains, and all meadows and orchards, they bowed to Yavanna. In the hill countries and mountains and their cavern systems, they looked to either Tulkas or Aulë. Whenever the golden-haired travellers encountered these Moriquendi, whilst they drew much admiration and attention, they were simply regarded as “Minyar”, and no further questions regarding their identity were asked.

“We have avoided Eldamar thus far for good reason, Arman,” Aryo now objected. “Our hair would draw too much unwanted attention.”

“We are less likely to turn heads in Eldamar than we did in Endórë.”

“In Eldamar, hair _our_ shades of gold would be recognized by the Calaquendi as exceedingly rare—mine found only in the lines of Ingwë and Indis, and yours only in Amárië and Galathil’s clans.”

Arman’s eyes glittered. “We could darken our hair!”

“Elves colour their hair? Never!” protested Aryo, appalled, remembering with some distaste the unnatural shades of red and yellow the entertainers at Elessar’s court had at times tinted their locks.

“Only because they have had no _need_ to. We _have_ need. An inconspicuous shade—deep brown—like Lindir’s—will allow us to blend in. For the first time in our lives! Imagine the novelty of being two unremarkable dark-haired _n_ _éri_ in a city of a hundred thousand mostly dark-haired elves. Come on, Aryo—I know you want to see the city as much as I do.”

Aryo looked sceptical. “It would need to be a colour that will stay for a while, then. Any ideas?”

Arman thought awhile. “Tea?”

“Walnuts,” murmured a gruff, deep voice in Westron near them.

They turned their heads to look at the ancient dwarf, amazed. They had no idea that Gimli could understand that much elvish. Regardless they had liberally sprinkled their conversation with Westron, the rest of their speech had been in their own curious mix of Quenya and Sindarin.

“Black walnut hulls will do the trick for you, lads, if ’tis a head of dark hair you want,” said Gimli with a yawn. “There are dwarrowdams who use that when age greys their locks and beards. My late mam dyed hers for special feasts. The colour lightens over time, though.”

Arman’s eyes sparkled. “How many walnuts, Master Dwarf? And how do we make this dye?”

 

The tiny rebel walked ramrod-straight and dry-eyed till she reached the door of the house. Then, as she walked down the hallway, her little face puckered and she began to sniffle. She could not have articulated any of her emotions, but she knew she hated Ecthelion.

How could her Canyo follow this strange, new elf? And lick his face? And sit at his feet and look at him in that adoring way?

And it was not only her Canyo who was different because of this intruder. Yesterday both _Amm_ _ë_ and _Atto_ had acted peculiar after Ecthelion almost fell off the roof, which he really _should_ have. Alassë’s happy, strong _Atto_ had grown bewilderingly awkward and uncomfortable. _Amm_ _ë_ too. And when _Amm_ _ë_ talked with Ecthelion, her voice… changed. Alassë remembered the conversation she had overheard in the hallway. _Amm_ _ë_ had seemed like a stranger—hard and mocking—no longer her _Amm_ _ë_. Alassë _hated_ it. Hated the way Ecthelion called _Amm_ _ë_ _Nolpa_ —‘Mole’. That was _Atto’s_ special name for _Amm_ _ë_ and when _Atto_ said it, playfully, teasingly, lovingly, it made Alassë feel warm and good.

Ecthelion did _not_ say it that way, which was good or _Atto_ would surely have been angry. But the way Ecthelion said it felt all _wrong_. And he was stupid. He called _Amm_ _ë_ ‘Lómion’ and ‘my prince’ and it made Alassë feel her world was falling apart and she did not know how to stop it, how to make the world _right_ again _._  

As she walked past the pedestal in the hall, the elfling looked up at the globe with the dancing wisp of light at its heart. She was forbidden to touch the stone, and she could not, anyway, since the smooth marble pedestal alone was twice her height. She remembered how _Amm_ _ë_ had used it to find Canyo. Alassë wanted to find _Atto_. Wanted to tell _Atto_ to come home quick. She did not want _Amm_ _ë_ and Ecthelion to be together.

Not thinking of her wet clothes and her still slightly-muddy appearance, she took a stool taller than herself and pushed it against the pedestal. Then, with the native agility of a child of Glorfindel’s, she pulled herself up onto it. She could see the distorted reflection of her face in the curved surface of the smooth crystal, and the swirling white light within that beckoned to her. Even as she reached out her small hands, she thought, _Atto, too, will scold me for using the stone. Atto said I shouldn’t till I’m bigger…_

Then she thought of all the other people who cared for her and who talked to her through the crystal as _Atto_ or _Amm_ _ë_ carried her in their arms. Finrod and Amárië. Elrond and Celebrían. Galadriel. Lindir. Itarillë. Eärendil and Elwing. Legolas. And her little heart so hungered to be loved and comforted in that moment that she touched the crystal and willed _one_ of them, _any_ of them, to come to her _now_.

Most young elves not yet of age would lack the strength of will and focus to command a palantír, let alone a tot of five. As her hands touched the cold, glassy surface of the globe, she felt an electric shock run through her arms, then a dizzying whirl of images spun through the crystal in rapid succession, and she would have fallen save that the thing held her hands to itself and would not let her go. Forest, mountains, sky, sun, fire… they whirled around and she felt she was spinning, spinning… then she gasped, her silver eyes huge, as she flew with giddy swiftness over a vast expanse of forest, past a tall mountain peak, across a wide plain, and through mountains till she saw a shining white city.

And suddenly a face was before her. It was a man. His hair was as raven as her own, and his eyes the same silver, like _Haruni_ Írissë’s, and he was staring at Alassë and looking very surprised. She stared back.

“Who are you?” the child demanded.

He continued to stare at her, his mouth fallen slightly open. A circlet of gold set with diamonds and rubies sat on his brow, and his robe was a rich, deep red, like wine. She saw a window behind him, and beyond it mountains and the tops of white towers. He was a very handsome man, with fine features that looked somehow familiar. Then it struck her. “You look like Aryo,” she said. Not the hair, nor the colour of the eyes, but the shape of the face, the planes of his finely-sculpted cheekbones, the straight, narrow nose and well-shaped lips and strong chin—so much like an older version of her _hanno_.

His lips moved soundlessly, then she heard his words in her mind, rather like the way her parents and brothers sometimes spoke to her.

“I… look like… _who?”_

“Aryo. My brother.”

“I see… Is this brother there with you?”

“No. He has gone to visit Oromë.”

“Aahh... Where are your parents, _pitya?_ ”

“You won’t tell them, will you?” she said in a rush, a little flutter in her tummy telling her that this was wrong, that she should not be using the stone, nor speaking to a stranger, nor keeping any secrets from _Amm_ _ë_ and _Atto_. “ _Please_ don’t let them know. I’m not supposed to use the stone. Only it has been so—so—everything is all wrong since _he_ came—I wanted to tell Elrond or Legolas or _Haruni_ Itarillë or _someone_ —”

“ _Haruni_ Itarillë…?” The man leaned forward. He was quite a stern-looking man, but his grave silver eyes had widened slightly, and his face now softened and grew kind. Her little heart swelled with gladness at finding a sympathetic and fatherly ear. He reminded her of Elrond too.

“I have three _haruni_ ,” she told him. “ _They_ would understand. They wouldn’t be mean like _Amm_ _ë_ , and send me to my room for a week. _They_ would see that it is _all_ Ecthelion’s fault—”

“Ecthelion? Of the Fountain?”

“Yes.” Her little silver eyes sparked and she added haughtily, “You must stop interrupting me. You are not very good at listening.”

He smiled a little, and it made him look even more like Aryo. Aryo was steady, strong, like a rock. It made her trust this strange _n_ _ér_. “Very well,” he said gently, settling back in his chair. “Someone named Ecthelion has upset you, _pitya_ , and you want to tell your _haruni_. Will you tell me? I will listen very carefully.”

At the warmth and concern in his deep voice, tears stung her eyes, and it all poured out. “Ecthelion spoils _everything_. Canyo is _my_ dog, not his. He should ask Oromë for his _own_ hound. And he is so _stupid_. Why, he calls _Amm_ _ë_ ‘Lómion’ when _any_ one would know that’s a _boy’s_ name—”

“ _’L_ _ÓMION’?_ Ecthelion calls your… _Amm_ _ë…_ ‘ _L_ _ómion’??”_ said the man sharply, leaning forward again, his eyes sparking suddenly with fire.

“You must _not_ interrupt. You said you would listen,” she chided him crossly.

“So I did. My profound apologies, little lady. Pray continue.”

She sighed deeply and expressively. “I don’t care if he’s _Atto’s_ best friend, or if he killed more balrogs than _Atto_. It’s not nice when he’s here. I want him to go away.”

“Well, I am sure he will, _pitya_. Ecthelion has his own home and his own dogs in Alcarinos. He _shouldn’t_ stay long.”

“You think so?” She looked hopeful.

“He had better not. He has duties to perform.”

“ _Atto_ said this morning he _wants_ Ecthelion to stay longer—says Ecthelion is just like _his Atto_. He does not _need_ another _Atto_. He already has _Haru_ —” Just then, an excited volley of barking interrupted the tot, and there was an avalanche of wet, white fur which swept the child from view. The stool fell over, the palantír narrowly missed destruction, and connection was severed.

 

Half an hour later, as Ecthelion supped on cold roast venison and barley bread on the porch, Glorfindel and Maeglin entered their daughter’s room and saw her curled asleep in her bed, clean and in a fresh nightshirt, and Canyo curled at her feet in a large hill of white fur, likewise asleep. They watched her for a while, put their arms around each other, and smiled softly.

“She looks so innocent…” said Glorfindel.

“The punishment stands. She has to learn.”

“I’ll talk to her. She has till Ecthelion leaves in two days to make good.”

Alassë stirred in her sleep, and opened her eyes to look at her parents. “ _Amm_ _ë… Atto_ …”

_“Aiya, winimë.”_

They sat on her bed and bent to kiss her forehead, and in their circle of love, her dog at her feet, Alassë’s little world was right again. Her silver eyes were huge and contrite. “I was naughty, _Amm_ _ë_. I’ll tell Ecthelion I am sorry…”

 

The erstwhile King of Gondolin sat unmoving for over an hour, staring at the now-darkened stone on the table before him.

Aryo’s palantír, veering wildly out of the control of his baby sister, had assumed the course so skilfully taken by Finrod the night before, and this time without the intricate shrouding spells the Crown Prince of the Noldor had cast.

By chance, at that very moment, Turgon had finished speaking to his father Fingolfin, and had been turning the palantír south to Valmar to speak to his law-parents. These were not conversations he looked forward to, for he rather suspected that Elenwë’s family still thought of him as “that Noldo”, and had not _completely_ forgiven him for rebelling against the Valar and taking their daughter to her death on the Grinding Ice. His thoughts, fresh from his talk with his father, had wandered from his blond law-parents to his wayward, wilful little sister and her supposed life of sin… when, suddenly, the face of a very young child had appeared before him in the stone, framed with wet, raven hair, and looking so like Aredhel at that age that he had almost called out her name. Such fierce and desolate little silver eyes. Such a commanding little manner, like a princess born.

_…he calls Ammë ‘Lómion’._

Turgon had managed not to think of that name for a long time.

He recalled a newborn babe four years ago in Avallonë. And a mother with raven hair and eyes of midnight named _Aduialiel._

_Daughter of twilight…_

_Son of twilight…_

No. It could not be. There had to be another explanation.

And Ecthelion had better return with it soon.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Amya & Milyë [Q] – both mean ‘mummy’

Atya [Q] – of course, this means ‘daddy’

Winimë [Q] – baby

Arquen [Q] – noble knight

Aikanamma [Q] – sharp talon

Heca [Q] – very rude “Be gone! Sod off!”

Herinya [Q] - milady

Ingolmo [Q] – loremaster

 

_[Note: I have a few of my own ideas on the palantíri, but I think that much of what emerged here must have been influenced by lintamandë’s essay on Tumblr: http://lintamande.tumblr.com/post/59272846538/on-the-palantiri]_

 


	41. A Tangled Web

They watched as Ecthelion rode away into the cool, early pre-dawn mist of the forest.

“He will have to tell,” Maeglin murmured.

“I know,” Glorfindel replied simply.

A last flash of the grey horse’s white tail between some beeches, and their friend vanished.

As they turned to walk the two leagues back to the lake, the morning forest, clothed in mist and dew, was awakening with birdsong—a time they usually loved enjoying together, but today Glorfindel felt the currents of anxiety and uncertainty in his beloved’s _f_ _ëa_. “Few could plead our case better than Fountain,” he said soothingly. “I have faith that Turukáno will be able to understand. And come to forgive, as Itarillë and Eärendil have.”

“It took Itarillë long enough.” Maeglin brooded for a while. “You told Ecthelion that they broke me with torture?”

“I told him the truth. It was love that broke you.”

She thought back awhile, and a wry smile curled the corner of her mouth. “Love? Is that indeed what it was? My memory fails me like a mortal’s. Lust, more like.” She had now lived more years as an _elleth_ than as an _ellon_. Her memories of that first life were, in fact, still crystal clear, but less and less of that first self now seemed to remain.  “I do not think I knew then, what love was. What it could be.” She reached out to twirl a strand of golden hair around her finger, and tugged at it fondly. “Warm seems the candle, to one who has not felt the sun.”

Glorfindel glowed luminously at that, and they exchanged a deep, tender kiss. Her smile mirrored his as they walked on, then she looked away as darker thoughts returned.

“Which is worse? To have caved in under torture would have made me weak. To have caved in under lust makes me… repulsive.” Why should she care what they thought? And yet she did still. More deeply than she would ever want to admit.

“In the eyes of many Eldar there may be shame in such desires, yet it is only human,” said Glorfindel. “I, for one, was able to comprehend it far more easily than the monstrous inhumanity of that smiling mask you wore six years to hide your treachery. Once Turukáno knows that it was in fact Sauron who had taken possession of you in those years, forgiveness will come easier.”

“The fact remains that my desire for his daughter cost him his kingdom and his people’s lives. That will never be easy to forgive.”

“I’m not saying it will be easy. But I am saying… it is possible.” He took her by the hand and gave her a little twirl. “Indulge me, and imagine with me, for a moment, the best of all possible outcomes…” He spun her into a clearing filled with flowers. “Imagine that Turukáno understands, and forgives, as do most of the lords and the people. Behold, the way is open for us to return, and perhaps live there and pick up our old lives…” He spun her back into his arms, and dipped her back so that her black hair brushed the dewy yellow and white flowers that starred the ground. “…would you?”

“I have no old life to return to,” she said flatly as she lay back against his arm. “There will never again be a House of the Mole. I could never again be Turukáno’s right hand, or a prince in his kingdom. Nor do I wish it.”

He set her upright, and swept her a courtly bow. “Would you be my lady, then, and run my House at my side?”

She gave a very unladylike snort as she shook dew-drops from her hair. “From the Lord of the Mole to the Lady of the Golden Flower? _Me?_ It is beyond imagination.”

“Hmm…” He tilted his head thoughtfully as they walked on. “Once in your wildest dreams you could never have imagined being a _n_ _ís_. Or having me in your bed. Or having my children. Methinks your imagination, my proud prince, is too poor.”

“Your people of the Golden Flower would _never_ accept the traitor-Mole as their lady. And what would you have me do there—pass my days tending flowers and kissing children?”

“We could build a forge as great as that you formerly had in your House,” he said grandly.

The gardens and trees, flowers and herbs, fruit and vegetable crops of Turgon’s kingdom—those had always been the preserve of Glorfindel’s House. The thought of the great furnaces and workshops of the Mole invading it… she made a face. “A forge ill fits the House of the Golden Flower, and you know it.” She glanced at him unhappily. “So… you long much to return?”

“No, love. I may miss old friends. I may be curious to see the city. I may dream of what it might be like for us to live there…” He stooped to pluck a pair of flowers, one white and one yellow. “…but the truth is I have never been happier than I am now, just as we are—a thousand leagues away from New Gondolin, where no judgement can touch us.” He tucked the white flower into his own hair, and the yellow behind her ear, and his thoughts went to another matter. “It has been over a week since we heard from the boys.”

The twins had sent their parents word that they were heading south to mine crystals for Aryo’s work. “They may have already reached the Crystal Caves. Their palantir will be powerless there,” she said, adjusting the flower more securely in her hair. “It is not uncommon for them to disappear for months without a word.”

“I know.” The father frowned slightly. “But why do I have a feeling…”

Glorfindel shrugged off his misgivings. He turned his thoughts to Ecthelion riding to Alcarinos. The Lord of the Fountain’s journey north would be far shorter than the erratic, meandering path through fields and forests he had taken in his quest south. Given Lossendol’s speed, he should be home within a month…

The Lord of the Fountain had, in the end, stayed longer than the two days he had planned. Glorfindel had persuaded him to stay a full ten days, during which he had made his peace with Alassë, and won her over with his singing and flute playing.

So it was that a pair of twins were far ahead of Ecthelion on the road north, and swift of foot as Lossendol was, Aryo and Arman arrived at the Shining City a full week ahead of him.

There might be no winter of snow and ice in Aman, but each _coranar_ ended with a season of cool, dry winds from the north. That season, the _luhim_ , was upon them now, and as the brothers journeyed across the wide valley of the Calacirya, they passed through groves of mellyrn and celebyrn resplendent in their robes of gold and silver leaves, and lingered awhile to bask in such beauty. But at last they came to the foothills of the Pélori north of the Calacirya, followed the river Nénalin into the mountains, and came to the valley of Oronan one evening.

Then before them lay Alcarinos in the twilight. Dozens of fair white towers and many houses and buildings rose on either side of the fast-flowing Nénalin, twelve bridges across the river connecting the western and eastern halves of the city. The proud banners of the ten Houses flew over the city in the mountain breeze, and their hearts swelled with joy to see, on the west bank, the sun-rayed Golden Flower fluttering between the banners of the Tree and the Fountain.

They had journeyed by quieter paths across the Calacirya, and for much of the time hidden their bright hair beneath their hoods. Entering the city, hoods still raised, they found a guesthouse, or _sennas_ , on the west bank, near the House of the Golden Flower, and took up residence in a modest room on the top floor. Then it was time for their disguise.

“Well?” asked Aryo, as he lay with his head at the edge of a bench, and Arman completed the rinse of his long, waist-length hair in a basin. He was not reassured by the look on his twin’s face.

“We may have used one walnut too many,” said Arman, patting his brother’s long tresses with an old, torn tunic. “Or left it on too long.”

Aryo sat up, and looked at the looking glass mounted on the wall. His face was blank as he took in the sight of his fair face framed by tendrils of damp raven hair. He turned away from the mirror, and buried his face in his arms on the table next to the bench. “Arda weeps.”

“It’s not that bad. You still look _good_ , Aryo! That black is—is—very striking.” They had tested the dye first on Arman’s own locks, and Arman had laughed at the strangeness of seeing his silver-gold turned into a rich, deep brown, like the honey their bees at home distilled from dandelion and heather blossoms. Neither of them had expected that Aryo’s golden waves would have drunk the dye so thirstily as to transform to black.

“I probably look like _Amm_ _ë_ when she was the _gwarth_ Maeglin. So much for blending into the crowd at New Gondolin.”

“Well… we have no idea what _Amm_ _ë_ looked like as a _n_ _ér_ … but… but you _do_ look remarkably like… like Turukáno,” admitted Arman as he peeled off the old rabbitskin gloves he had been wearing, which were now dyed as black as Aryo’s hair.

Aryo raised his head and glared irately at his twin. “Like the king of the city we are visiting? That defeats the whole purpose of this gnat-brained exercise, do you not think? Dye our hair dark and we’ll vanish into the crowd, you said—”

“Who was to know your hair would react so differently? When the peredhel twins tried to dye _Atto’s_ hair in the Third Age, they only succeeded in turning it a brassy green. That was why I left yours on a little longer.”

“Obviously they didn’t use walnuts.”

“Anyway, you are a full head shorter than Turukáno. No one could mistake you for him. Lie down. I’ll try to wash it out.”

After five minutes, Aryo protested, “Enough! My scalp hurts. Is it any lighter?”

“Barely,” said Arman. “ _Damn,_ but your hair _loves_ that dye!”

A chill descended on Aryo. “Gimli said the colour would fade over time. What if it does not? Elven hair and dwarven hair are not the same.”

“It will grow out…”

Aryo groaned. “In about _ten years_ it will. _I want my hair back!!_ I never knew how much I loved it till now.”

“Well, should we need to re-colour, I’ll know to add four to five fewer walnuts for you.”

“ _Re-colour??_ I am never, _ever_ going to do this again. We are here for a _month_ , no more. Once we’re back in the woods south, we _have_ to find a way to _get this muk out of my hair!”_

“When Thalanes once stained her hands with walnuts hulls, she bleached the colour out with lemons. We should be able to get our hands on a few…”

Aryo calmed down. “Yes. Yes, we will try that.”

Arman put his arm around his brother. “Look. I know you didn’t want to do this, and I’m grateful that you did it for me. Let’s get some food now. You’ll feel better after that. I’ll braid your hair up—and there is none will think of the king when they see you.” He deftly braided the black locks and twisted them up into a topknot. “There. I saw a few _n_ _éri_ with their hair done so, as we rode into the city,” the younger twin said, slipping in a last hairpin. “I’m guessing from their garb and build that they were smiths, like you. You will blend right in!”

After a very brief glance at the mirror, Aryo winced and averted his face, feeling a stranger to himself. “All right. Let’s go.”

It was now past midnight, and the streets were alive with elves enjoying the starlit night. The air was crisp and cool in this high mountain city, and they breathed it in with pleasure, for it recalled Imladris in autumn. They passed among elves dancing and singing beneath gold-leaved mellyrn, their light feet weaving patterns across a sward carpeted with white and golden flowers. Along the stone-paved riverbank, they saw vendors with baskets and small food carts, and the scents wafted to their keen noses—bowls of dumplings in steaming soup, meats stewed or steamed in leaves, cubes of meats and vegetables grilled on sticks. As they made their way past the dancers towards the river, they came across a white marble plinth atop which a tall white marble statue of a warrior kept vigil, hand on his sword hilt. They slowed to a halt.

Arman grinned excitedly, and sent his thought to his twin. _“It’s Atto!”_

_“And not a bad likeness.”_

_“I wonder what he would think of it!”_

As they stood there, they became aware that heads were turning in their direction. The attention was something they were so accustomed to, that it took them a while to realize that they were supposed to be in disguise and it was not supposed to be happening. They wondered what they had done wrong. 

_“Why are they staring at us?”_

_“Maybe we gawked too much at the statue?”_

_“Muk. It’s my face.”_

_“Quick, let us move on.”_

As they walked, the murmurs and stares at their faces continued on all sides. Arman’s beauty naturally drew attention, but most of the stares were directed especially at Aryo. Noting that the willows and alders growing along the riverbanks shone with the light of many fair white and golden lanterns, Aryo said abruptly, “Too bright. We won’t go that way,” and pulled his brother towards the shadows of a nearby side street. Arman gazed back regretfully at the food carts.

“This was a bad idea. We’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Aryo, let us at least walk around the city once? And visit the House of the Golden Flower?”

“With our hoods over our heads?”

“Perhaps. We’re here, Aryo. And it is beautiful. Let us enjoy it as much as we may.”

They heard laughter, and music, and saw faint light ahead. The street opened into a square, and they saw a _yuldacar_ , a drinking house, and because it was crowded and its lamps were dim, they felt safe enough to enter. Seating themselves inconspicuously in a corner, they ordered _miros,_ a velvety-smooth plum-coloured wine, and a dish of the _apsa_ of the day to share. Aryo faced the wall, and stole furtive glances around the room. It was their first time in a _yuldacar_ , and it was inevitable they would compare it with taverns in Ennor. It was wholly unlike any tavern in Bree or Minas Tirith or Dale, where the air had been thick with smoke from pipe and hearth, and loud with the cacophony of mortal voices and the banging of tankards and fists on tables, and the scraping of chairs, and the occasional brawl. Music, if there was any, had most oft been a merry fiddle, and the whole scene would have been lit with the ruddy light from a crackling fireplace.

Here, the air hummed with a similar vibrancy and gaiety, but there was no smoke, and the blending of diverse elven voices was harmonious. Small groups sat chatting at a dozen tables across the room, chatter interspersed with song and laughter. A harpist and a flautist played by the only light in the place, a soft, white-gold cluster of lanterns. Some elves were dancing in a space at the centre of the room. Whereas in Ennor the patrons had been largely male, and the servers female, here patrons and servers alike were of both genders. The twins wondered if many of these patrons were travellers like themselves, or natives of the city. They were too unfamiliar with the accents and fashions of Eldamar to tell.

 _“I never thought I’d say this, but I rather_ miss _all the things we used to deplore about taverns,”_ said Arman, speaking in thought and using the Westron word. _“The ruckus and brawls, the stench of cheap pipeweed and unwashed_ fírimar _, the strange, seedy characters.”_

 _“Don’t be daft. How could you miss that? I’m glad not to suffer the dirt and stench. And the bad cooking,”_ replied Aryo, also in thought. He averted his face as a server placed the dish of venison stew before them.

As they ate, there was one particular corner of the _yuldacar_ that Arman’s eyes kept wandering to. Aryo noticed it and rolled his eyes a little. _“_ Atto’s _hair is brighter. And_ Ammë _is fairer_.”

Arman flushed. _“_ Atto _is the sun. This is_ fire. _”_ And he tried to shield his deeper thoughts from his twin.

Turning his head slightly to follow his twin’s gaze across the room, Aryo discreetly peered at the three elves sitting in the corner farthest from them. The brothers had quickly surveyed the entire room as they entered, and Aryo had seen nothing in this trio to deserve a second glance. One was a dark-haired _elleth_ who would have been fair among the _fírimar,_ but whose strong jaw was a little too masculine for elven tastes. She had broad shoulders and strong hands on a lean frame, and a rare sprinkling of light freckles on her nose and cheeks. The strongly-built _ellon_ seated next to her had thick, wavy hair red as copper, and the features that were too manly on the _elleth_ were beautiful on him. Seated with the brother and sister was a very tall, slender _elleth_ whose back was towards the twins. Aryo recalled a glimpse of her features from the doorway. Heart-shaped face. Milky alabaster skin. Emerald-green eyes that looked desolate. What was presently mesmerizing Arman was the fine, silken waterfall of fiery-red tresses that seemed almost alive with flame in the light of the white-and-gold lamp. The few redheads the twins had seen in Eryn Lasgalen were the foliage of autumn, not this mesmerizing cascade of flickering firelight.

“Nice hair.” And rather indifferently, Aryo turned back to his food.

Arman watched as the flame-haired maiden reached for the wine jug. Her copper-haired companion moved it away, and through the crowd the twins’ elven hearing could make out the words. Most of the conversations around them were in an oddly-accented Sindarin, but this trio spoke a Quenya familiar to their ears.

“Nay, _nildë_. You have had enough.”

“I’ll decide when I’ve had enough.”

“Aulë’s hammer, Nárriel! Your _Atar_ will have our heads if we let you get drunk,” said the dark-haired _elleth_.

“I am no child, and you are not my minders. For once in my life, I want to get drunk. Very drunk.”

“He’s not worth it, Nárë.”

“Just for you, we’ll hang him from a tree by his braids if we see him.”

“I’ll hang him myself.”

Aryo attacked the food on his plate. “Obviously the Blessed Realm is no cure for some woes.”

And Arman, turning his attention back to his plate, wished he had not drawn his twin’s attention to the _elleth._ Since they arrived in Aman, the twins had both experienced a sense of wellness, an increase of strength and stamina and mental acuity beyond anything they had imagined before, and it had so lifted Aryo’s mood that he had hardly moped or brooded over the last four years. But the wound left by his love for Arasael still festered, it seemed…

But still, by the Flame Imperishable, that _hair_ … Arman was dreamily remembering how it had shimmered and flickered in the light, when a voice low and trembling called: “Aryo?”

They both turned their heads, shocked. The red-haired _elleth_ was walking towards them. Arman found himself gazing at the most beautiful and the most wrathful emerald eyes he had ever seen. And they were riveted on his twin’s face.

 _How does she know? How—?_ Arman’s face went blank in shock, and he watched, stunned, as the tall, slender _elleth_ , her hair trailing behind her like dragon flame, seized Aryo by the neck of his tunic and lifted him from his seat with a strength astonishing for one so slender. “You faithless wretch!” she snarled. “You have some gall coming back here!”

And mesmerized by her eyes and hair, Arman failed to react in time as his elder brother was tossed across the room into a table where a couple had been gazing sweetly into each other’s eyes. There was a resounding crash as the table collapsed, and gasps sounded across the _yuldacar_ , and the musicians fell silent.

“You bloody bastard!—” cried the flame-haired maiden in Quenya.

“— _A pusta!_ It’s _not him_ , Nárë—it’s _not him!—”_ shouted her copper-haired friend.

 _“—Aryo!”_ cried Arman, flying to his brother’s side.

 _“—_ perfidious knave!—” As the enraged _elleth_ rained punches on Aryo, Arman stepped in to take the blows from those slender but iron-strong hands upon himself.

“— _damn_ it, Nárë—” exclaimed her male companion as he came forward.

“—you have no more faith in your false heart than a stink-bug _—”_ She threw off her friend’s hand and struggled to get past Arman at his twin.

 “—you’re making a mistake!” cried Arman in Quenya as he caught her hands.

 _“Selyë!”_ thundered a voice from the doorway.

The iron-fisted maiden froze at that, and blanched. Slowly, she straightened and turned.

Flaming hair falling in braids over his shoulders, a lord with flashing green eyes was striding towards them. The _elleth_ was successfully pulled away from the twins by her two friends.

Aryo tried to move amid the debris of the table and fell back with a grimace. _“My back—”_ he thought-spoke to his twin, unable to utter words.

“Do not move,” Arman said sharply to his twin. To the people who had closed in upon them in a circle, he said quickly, “Friends, there has been a misunderstanding. We but arrived in the city this very evening.”

“ _Selyë_ , what have you done?” demanded the red-haired lord as he arrived at the maiden’s side.

The girl was staring stupefied at Aryo, as he lay grimacing with his face illuminated by the lamplight. She raised her long, slender hand to her mouth in horror. “Oh, sweet Varda… _Aran Turukáno??”_

“ _Lá umë_ —no, no, not so,” Arman assured her as he crouched protectively over his twin.

 _“Arman, you idiot, stop speaking Quenya, for Eru’s sake!”_ Aryo managed to say in thought.

“We are but travellers from Tol Eressëa,” continued Arman in Sindarin. “We have done nothing wrong.”

“Mountain of Manwë,” breathed the red-haired lord as he stared at Aryo.

“Please, help him,” begged Arman, almost in tears as he felt his twin’s pain, “he needs a healer.”

“He shall have my own,” said the lord to him in Sindarin. He barked an order in Quenya to two _ellyn_ bystanders and they left the _yuldacar_ swiftly.

“What are your names, strangers, and whence do you come?” the lord asked Arman.

“I am Cúmaen of Alalminórë, and my friend is… Aros,” said Arman, spewing the first names that came to mind—an _epessë_ given to him by the Silvan elves of Eryn Lasgalen, and the name of a river in Beleriand. They had given aliases no consideration. Their plan had been to keep to themselves and speak to as few as possible. It had seemed so simple.

The lord was now staring strangely at Arman’s face. He looked at Aryo, then back at Arman again. “Cúmaen… Aros…” he murmured to himself, gazing piercingly at Arman’s face. “And what brings you hence from Tol Eressëa?”

“The renown of the shining city, and the tales of its splendour and beauty,” said Arman. “We have come to see it for ourselves.”

“I am sorry for the poor welcome to our fair city you have received, young friends,” said the lord. “I am Galdor, Lord of the House of the Tree. Whilst you are here, you shall be my guests.”

“And I crave pardon for my error. I pray that Aros’ hurt may not be grave, and that he will soon again be hale,” said the maiden tremulously in Sindarin as well.

A stretcher and two green-and-grey robed healers had arrived. As they carefully moved Aryo, the elder twin’s furious thoughts were lambasting the younger twin. _“Friend? I am your FRIEND?”_

_“We look little like brothers, Aryo.”_

_“AROS?”_

_“It was the only name that came to mind. A river in Beleriand—”_

_“I know what it is.”_ Aryo clenched his jaw in pain as he was borne on the stretcher through the starlit streets. “ _How many other lies shall we tell now? Have you forgotten—‘he who tells one lie will ere long spin a hundred’?”_

Arman himself had been stunned at the ease with which he had uttered the falsehoods. _“We had better ready our story, Aryo. Shall we say we were we born on Tol Eressëa?”_

_“I’d rather tell as few lies as I can. We were born in Endórë.”_

_“No—that is risky. Better to be born in an obscure tribe of wood elves here.”_

_“I’m not lying about this!”_

_“Well, we’re not brothers so you can be born anywhere you want! I was born on Tol Eressëa.”_

_“You know next to muk about Tol Eressëa, fool.”_

_“I’ve already said we are from Alalminórë. So Tol Eressëa it has to be.”_

_“Ai… Eru help us.”_

_“You can be a smith!”_

_“And you obviously are an archer. Cúmaen, indeed.”_

A short while later, Lord Galdor’s own physician was tending to Aryo at the healing hall of the House of the Tree. In the courtyard outside, the maiden Nárriel swayed unsteadily on her feet, and was led to a bench by her father, where she fell asleep on his shoulder. Arman stood by anxiously, his eyes wandering now and then to the father and daughter, to dwell on their fiery tresses.

 _Galdor of the Tree._ Despite his anxiety over Aryo, Arman felt some excitement to be in the presence of one of his childhood heroes. Galdor was named in the histories as the bravest of the Lords of Gondolin—even before Rog or Ecthelion or his _Atto_. Glorfindel had related Galdor’s feats of daring to his young sons before Maeglin had cut in sharply, “Are you trying to give them ideas? Galdor’s stunts are beyond stupid. And to think people call _you_ or _me_ reckless…”

How ironic, then, that daredevil Galdor had been the only one of the Lords of Gondolin not to go to Mandos. Glorfindel had never spoken of Galdor’s life after the fall, but history told Arman that with Tuor, Idril and Egalmoth, Galdor had guided the survivors of Gondolin on the long, hard road to the Mouths of Sirion. He had survived the massacre at the Havens, and the War of Wrath, and returned repentant to Aman at the summons of the Valar. He would have been in Tol Eressëa during the millennium Glorfindel had spent in Aman following his re-housing, but Glorfindel had never mentioned speaking to him.

The Lord of the Tree was scrutinizing Arman thoughtfully, and it made the young elf uneasy. This stern-faced man was not like the bold fellow with the hearty laugh and fondness for jests that his father had described to him. For a brief moment, Arman glimpsed a shadow in Galdor’s eyes that caused him to shiver involuntarily. He had seen that look often enough on Thranduil’s face, and guessed that the Woodland King was recalling Dagorlad. Or his wife’s death.

Nárriel’s two companions from the tavern stood near Arman, curious to know more about the strangers, and perhaps sorry for the misunderstanding that had ruined their visit. They had introduced themselves as brother and sister—Rasco and Istarnië of the House of the Hammer.

“So… are you as skilled an archer as your name suggests, Cúmaen?” asked Rasco.

“I am handy enough with my bow, _mellon._ ”

“I hunt a great deal. You are welcome to ride with me, _othol,_ whilst you are in the city.”

 _That was unfriendly,_ thought Arman. _I call him Friend, and he calls me Stranger. But I overreact, perchance. It may be that our cultures differ._  

“Were you drawn hence by news of the tournament, Cúmaen?” asked Istarnië with a warm, gentle smile.

Arman hesitated. If he exposed his ignorance, and this tournament was famed far and wide in Eldamar, it would look strange. Were it so renowned, however, Legolas would surely have made mention of such a tournament to the twins and competed in it, so Arman decided to be honest. “No… for I knew naught of such a tournament.”

“The Golden Arrow Tournament. There you may pit your skill against the best archers in the land.” Rasco’s eyes glinted as he saw how Arman’s eyes wandered again to Nárriel as she stirred.

“You warned me, _Atto,”_ she murmured in Quenya, her slurred voice bitter. “You warned me, and I heeded not.”

“Hush, _Selyë.”_

“I was a fool. A stupid, blind fool. They will say I threw myself at a prince shamelessly, and sought my best to ensnare him but failed.” Her voice broke in a sob as she uttered those last words.

“None will say that,” Rasco cut in sharply. “They will call him a philanderer who played fast and loose with a maiden’s affections.”

“Yet still I love him,” she sighed wretchedly. “Aryo…”

Arman almost started as she uttered his brother’s name.

“Shush, _Selyë._ You must rest. _”_ Lord Galdor rose and gathered his daughter up in his arms. “I shall take her to her chambers,” he said heavily. “An attendant is readying a chamber for you, Cúmaen. I shall see you on the morrow.”

And Arman bowed to the lord and followed with his eyes till they vanished down a corridor leading off from the courtyard.

Arman hesitated, then asked Rasco and Istarnië, “May I ask—for whom did Nárriel mistake my… friend?”

“For the king’s brother—Argon,” Istarnië said.

“Istë,” Rasco hissed disapprovingly at his sister, with a frown.

Arman was enlightened. Argon… Arakáno… _Aryo_. Neither of Arman’s parents, who had been born long after the youngest child of Fingolfin’s death, would have known the prince, or thought of his familiar name when they named their son.

“It is all over the city by now, _hanno_ ,” said Istarnië in Quenya. “And the mishap in the _yuldacar_ will only fan the flames. I would rather Cúmaen heard it from the friends who love her than from the gossips.”

Her brother nodded glumly, and Istarnië resumed her tale in Sindarin. “Prince Argon was betrothed to a Noldorin _elleth_ named Artarína—in Sindarin, Arinel—shortly before the Darkness fell upon Valinor. They were both very young then—barely of age. He went into exile, of course, and was slain at Lammoth. After he was re-housed, he spoke with Arinel and they melted her ring and dissolved the betrothal. A _yén_ ago, he visited his brother in Alcarinos, and took a fancy to Nárriel, and she returned his affection.”

“Did the prince give her pledge of his love?” asked Arman. Many elves loved gossip. He hoped they would see no more than natural curiosity in his question.

Istarnië sighed. “Never. An _ellon_ can make an _elleth_ no promises with his tongue, and yet tender a thousand with his eyes and kisses. And his actions. He brought her to Tol Eressëa, to visit his father’s palace. We had hoped for their betrothal soon.”

“She knew what he was,” Rasco cut in abruptly. “There had been Irimë’s lady-in-waiting before that. And the dancer at the High King’s court. And the artist. And the flute player. He was infamous for his dalliances centuries ere she met him. And always, when one affair was ended, he would run back to Arinel’s side.”

“Once and for all, this time. This very morn, news came from Tol Eressëa that Prince Argon is betrothed once more to Arinel. And since it is their second betrothal, they are to be wed in less than a coranar.”

“He spoke of Arinel always as a beloved sister and confidant, but anyone could tell it was more. They have always shared a bond, _fëa_ and _fëa._ Narë was a fool, for refusing to face it.”

“Do not blame Nárriel. She was very young, then. We all were. And the prince is exceedingly charming, and laughter follows wheresoever he goes. To her, there was no one else. He could vanish at times for months, then return as though nothing had happened, and she would always welcome him back.”

Arman himself did not understand the pang that rankled in his heart as he listened. “And is the likeness of this prince to my friend so great?” Arman asked.

“Fairly, though he bears an even stronger likeness to Turgon,” replied Istarnië. “It was aided by the lamplight in the _yuldacar,_ and his style of hair—”

“—and because she had downed enough to make a lord drunk—” Rasco dourly cut in.

“—moreover, your friend was seated. Had he been standing, there could have been no confusion, for Argon is taller than his brother Turgon by half a head.”

“He must be the tallest edhel in history, then!” exclaimed Arman, unconsciously pulling himself to his full height.

“Nay—that would surely be Thingol of the Sindar.”  Istarnië looked at Arman oddly. “I thought you would surely know. Does Thingol not reign in Alalminórë? And does not Argon make his home at Kortirion with his father Fingolfin in the _luhim_ , the cool time of the year?

Arman had not thought through the choice of Alalminórë when he had named it their home. This vast forest of elms surrounded the city and lands of Kortirion and was larger than the forests of Lothlórien. Within lay the kingdom of the Sindar, where many of the elves of Doriath and Lothlórien were gathered under Melian and Thingol. Legolas had told the twins, however, of a few small, shy tribes of wood elves who had taken ship west over the long years, and who lurked in remoter parts of the forest. A number of them hailed from Mirkwood of old.

“Our tribe is very small, and we dwell apart from the Sindar,” Arman said. “I have not set eyes on Thingol before.”

“And yet you travel all this way to our fair mountain kingdom?” Istarnië smiled, “when there are wonders within your own lands yet unseen?”

“We—we met a prince of your people. He had golden hair, and he told us of many fair sights on the mainland. And of all his tales, that of Alcarinos most stirred our wonder and our desire to travel hence.”

Istarnië laughed. “That sounds like Prince Finrod! He is the closest friend of our king and much beloved wheresoever he goes. He befriends one and all.”

“And did Prince Findaráto teach you Quenya, wood elf?” asked Rasco in Quenya, looking at Arman more critically than his sister.

Arman had uttered far too much Quenya in the _yuldacar_ to deny it now. “I—yes. He did.”

“He did well. One might mistake you for a lord of the Noldor.”

“He was an excellent teacher,” said Arman, and was saved from further discussion when a grey-and-white robed healer strode forth from the hall, and joined their group.

“Two broken ribs and a badly bruised spine, but no grave injury sustained. Given his youth, three days in bed and he should be walking again. He asks for you,” said the healer to Arman.

Relieved, Arman hurriedly took his leave of the siblings from the Hammer and headed into the halls, spared further probing questions and the need for further lies.

For now.

 

“Wait, you little wind-waif!” shouted Galdor as he raced after the golden-haired child to the edge of the cliff. “Don’t you _dare_ take that leap without me!”

Azure eyes sparkling, the child turned obediently, his sun-bright tresses tossed by the strong sea winds, a halo about his head. Far below, the waves crawled and dashed themselves against the rocks.

Galdor took the small hand in his large, strong one, and grinned down at the eager little face. “Ready, _pitya?_ ”

“Ready!!” The child laughed in anticipation.

And they dived.

As they fell, the child’s small hand was jerked out of his. Suddenly, Galdor was atop the cliff again, and watching in despair and horror as a sun-haired warrior plummeted, wreathed in smoke and flames. When he turned his head, he saw a young elf with hair of dark honey-brown standing by him. His large azure blue eyes were trembling with tears. “Please, help him!” pleaded the elf. “Why didn’t you help?”

Galdor’s heart twisted with a now-ancient guilt and regret. “I was fighting orcs,” he muttered. “I was protecting the women, and the wounded.”

The golden-haired warrior vanished into the black abyss with the balrog

The young elf’s head fell to one side as though his neck had snapped. The azure eyes were fixed in death, and the silken brown hair was charred and bloody. No, not brown. Golden. The bright remnants of the famed hair dazzled Galdor’s eyes.

Galdor caught the broken body in his arms as it fell.

 

Galdor stared at the ceiling of his bedchamber, his heart pounding. He lay there haunted by azure eyes, by familiar features in a young stranger’s face.

He remembered that night. The desperate battle. The numbing grief of loss upon loss, of the loss of the beloved city, of the fall of friends and wife and son. The perilous path of escape across the Crissaegrim. The ambush, and Glorfindel’s sacrifice. The balrog once slain, the orcs had been easily vanquished.

Countless times in the days that followed, Galdor had agonized over that moment.

Why had it not been he, who had nothing left to live for, who had battled the great balrog?

But who could have held back Glorfindel as he unhesitatingly leapt to face the demon, and gloriously fulfilled his destiny? And could any but the Golden Flower have defeated that creature with such swift and deadly skill?

The Lord of the Tree had gone on to great deeds of heroism in the battles that ended the First Age—the kinslaying at the Havens, and the War of Wrath. To Galdor, it had not been bravery. He had sought death, but cruel Námo had spurned him time and again. It had been a bitter man who had sailed at last to Tol Eressëa, drawn only by the hope of reunion with wife and son.

He turned to gaze tenderly at the dark-haired _elleth_ who slept at his side. Galdor had at long last regained all he had lost, and more, and found healing of a kind. His son now served Fingon in Tirion, and had borne him a grandson. And very late, to Galdor himself and his wife, had come the birth of a daughter—a lovely creature with Galdor’s eyes and hair and spirit. Only his fealty to Turgon kept the father from riding forth now to confront Argon and beat the youngest Nolofinwion to a pulp.

And now two young strangers were in Galdor’s House. He had not understood what it was about them that so stirred his memories till this dream. The archer’s likeness to Glorfindel was uncanny. And there was something about his friend that went beyond the resemblance to Turgon. Galdor could not put his finger on it… an unease prickled his _fëa._

He arose quietly from his bed, careful not to disturb his wife. He went to the window and looked out over the myriad twinkling lights of the city as it lay under the stars. So peaceful.

As peaceful as it had been, that night, just before dragonfire lit the skies to the north.

 

Sedated by a cocktail of medicines, Aryo awakened only in the late afternoon to find a note from Arman on his pillow.

 _Gone to collect our gear from the sennas and check on the horses. Back in the blink of an eye_.

It was many blinks of an eye before Arman staggered in laden with their bags, grinning from ear to ear. In fact, it was almost sunset.

“You _what??”_ sputtered Aryo.

“Won the Golden Arrow Tournament!” Arman was glowing as he set down their belongings against the wall, and displayed the gleaming arrow to his twin. “There were sixty-three archers from the city, and twenty-six from other parts of Eldamar. It was a close contest with one archer from the House of the Swallow, another from the Heavenly Arch, and a third from Tol Eressëa who was formerly from Lothlórien. But in the end—I won! Lord Duilin has invited me to join his elite company of archers.”

Aryo stared aghast at his twin. “Well, you told Duilin _No,_ of course?”

“Ahh… I accepted.”

Aryo counted to five, then exploded. “Are you _out of your mind?_ You _cannot_ live here. What will you say when they ask for your background? Where you were born, where you lived before this, _who_ your parents are, _where_ your parents are, what their _names_ are? Every lie you tell digs a deeper pit. _What were you_ _thinking?”_

Arman looked sheepish as he twirled his unstrung bow. “I wasn’t… thinking. I just went with the flow.”

“How long do you think you can uphold this farce? How long do you think that colour on your head is going to last? Before it fades, the roots will start to grow out.”

“Aryo, I didn’t plan on this—but I want it. You know that I have wanted to serve here, to live here, since we were elflings.”

“Not this way! Not pretending to be someone else!”

“Even if I have to pretend to be someone else. It won’t be for long. I did tell Lord Duilin I might have to return to Tol Eressëa in half a _y_ _én.”_

“Half a _y_ _én!”_ Aryo, not even a _y_ _én_ old himself, sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes.

Arman climbed onto the bed next to his injured twin and gave him a careful embrace. “I am sorry, _hanno_. I know I’m an idiot. You can return south without me. Tell _Atto_ and _Amm_ _ë_ I hope they will forgive me. But I _want_ to do this. And I will protect our secret.”

Aryo opened his eyes. “This is about that girl.”

A little too quickly, Arman released his hug and sat up. “Girl?”

“Oww!! The maiden crowned with fire. You like her.”

Arman gave an unconvincing snort. “She has amazing hair. But I don’t even _know_ her.”

“So you would feel nothing if we were to ride away from this city and you never see her again?”

Arman was covered in confusion. “Of course not! I mean, of course I would feel nothing. She is not even _that_ pretty. It’s the hair. And the eyes.” He remembered the glimpse he had of golden-flecked emerald eyes in the spectator stands, just before he turned to take his final shot. “I’ve never seen eyes like that before.”

Aryo gazed bleakly at his twin. “I guess we had better stock up on walnuts.”

 

Duilin turned his head from the archery range to see Galdor walking towards him. The Lord of the Tree’s little grandson, who was visiting for Yule, was in his arms. The Lord of the Swallow was light and quick as a bird in his movements, feathers in the braids at the back of his head and in the dark tresses that flowed over his shoulders.

“You look terrible,” Duilin said, with the bluntness of millennia of friendship.

“Stuff it, Swallow,” said Galdor wearily, as he set the tiny tyke of seven years on the ground, and the elfling raced away eagerly onto the archery range. There was no danger—the practice was just over, and the Elite Company of twenty-seven archers was lounging around the shooting lines chatting with each other.

“How does Narë?” asked Duilin.

“Better. This morn she burned all his gifts to her.”

“Good.”

A child’s laugh from the archery range made them both turn their heads.

Galdor’s grandson had made a new friend and been hoisted onto Arman’s shoulders. The elfling grinned happily from his high perch, his bright red curls glinting in the sunlight. He was the first elfling born in either Tirion or Alcarinos in the last yén, and he accepted that it was his rightful due as Arman and the other archers made much of him.

“How do you find your newest Swallow?” asked Galdor.

“Cúmaen? A most likeable youngling, utterly without pride or airs about his victory. He seems to be fitting into the Company quickly. They have almost forgiven him for trouncing them yesterday.”

“Does he resemble anyone you know?”

Duilin contemplated Arman’s face thoughtfully. The azure eyes, the bright smile. Then, Arman laughed. Duilin looked perplexed. “Eagles of Manwë, there _is_ something familiar about the boy.”

“Imagine him with bright golden hair.”

Duilin raised his eyebrows as he saw it. “Laurefindil.”

“Indeed. The laugh, the eyes, the smile.”

“Well, we have never known Lauro’s parentage. Mayhap we have stumbled upon a kinsman of his. Should we ever see him again, we must let him know.”

“Cúmaen has a companion who I could swear is a Nolofinwion. He’s laid up now in my healing hall. After Narë mistook him for Arakáno and almost killed him.”

“Almost killed? You exaggerate, surely?”

“Nay. She threw him across the room.”

“The wrath of a woman scorned!” Duilin exclaimed with a laugh. “She’s your daughter, no doubt of that.”

“I have him in my care for more than compassionate reasons. I wish to speak with him further regarding his history and parentage, but he has been out cold every time I drop by the healing hall. The king might have an interest in him, once he hears of the likeness.”

“The king would most likely wish to meet with him. And Cúmaen as well. The lad says he hails from Tol Eressëa and was born in Endórë. He claims to be two _y_ _éni_ old, but I find it hard to believe he is even half that age.”

There is something all _quendi_ can sense about the young of their kind—a sense of _newness_ that lingers throughout their first _y_ _én_.

“Call him hence. Let us see if we can get to the bottom of this mystery,” said Galdor.

“Cúmaen!”

Arman crossed over to them, and set the child back in his grandfather’s arms. “ _Heruvinya_ ,” he said, bowing to the Lords of the Tree and the Swallow. He had decided that any pretence at not speaking Quenya was futile after Rasco’s remarks two nights ago, and he had told Aryo as much. In his place, his mother might have affected a rustic accent as she spoke Quenya, or might have feigned to speak it badly, but her son lacked that much guile. Standing before two of his heroes, Arman was almost glowing with excitement. He gave answers Aryo had rehearsed with him. He had been born in Alalminórë. A very small tribe hidden in the woods. His father had taught him to shoot. He had learned his Quenya from a Noldo who had been hunting there and befriended him. Who? Prince Findaráto…

Before they might enquire about his parentage or lineage, the discussion was diverted to when Arman would move his present place of abode to the House of the Swallow, and it was agreed he would remain in the House of the Tree till his friend was recovered and ready to leave the healing hall. Then Galdor’s grandson clamoured to be taken by Arman to visit the horses in the stables of the Swallow, and before the two lords knew what was happening, Arman had most courteously taken his leave of them and was walking jauntily away, a happy elfling seated on his shoulders once again.

“He has a way with children,” remarked Duilin. “Your Almion has taken quite a shine to him.”

“He has a way with _people_. How did he wiggle his way out of this conversation without our dismissing him?”

“Ah, be not so suspicious, Tree. He didn’t. Your grandson commandeered him.”

“Hmmph. Well, this talk is not finished.”

“I must say that I now see more and more of Laurefindil in him,” said Duilin. “The way he walks. That friendly warmth and charm. It is easy to love him.”

“His manners are those of a courtier, not a wood elf from a tiny tribe. Did you note the practised polish of that elegant bow?”

“I thought him naturally graceful.”

“That flourish of the hand was not natural grace. That was art.”

“Mayhap he will attribute that to Prince Findaráto’s tutelage as well,” said Duilin with a grin.

“Well, Findaráto has not been to Alcarinos—and indeed has been absent from Tirion—for the last few years. It would seem that teaching Quenya to wood elves and grooming them for court life must have occupied a large part of his time,” Galdor said drily.

“What reason have you to question Cúmaen’s history?”

“Something does not sit right. He is not what or who he claims to be.”

“Is he not? I’ll keep an eye on him. But I see no cause for concern.”

“And I shall send a message to enquire of Prince Findaráto.”

“If you can find him...” said Duilin with a shake of his head. “I hear he and his princess are travelling the wild lands south. What _is_ it exactly that makes you so suspicious of Cúmaen? So what if he is like Laurefindil? I would be suspicious if one came amongst us making claims to rank or privilege. But one who declares himself a simple wood elf, and who wishes merely to serve as an archer? What strange plot do you imagine is afoot?”

Galdor thought of his dream.

“I do not know, Swallow,” he said. “I do not know.”

 

Aryo was next.

There were no more sedatives, but he was still under orders to stay abed and rest. And he hated it. Sleep had been kind. Wakefulness and inactivity were killing him. _I should have requested some books,_ he thought, trying not to fidget too much, for there was still pain. It was not long before his restlessness and boredom were so unbearable that he crept out of bed. He slowly crossed the room to rummage in a bag, returned to bed with ink and quill and loose sheets of paper, and busied himself with scribbling and sketching on his knee for over an hour.

Suddenly, the door swung open. The healer, the Lord of the Tree, and the King of Alcarinos entered, and Aryo had such a shock he almost jumped out of his bed. The quill went flying, the papers scattered across the room, the jar of ink spilled across his blanket, and a huge spasm of pain seized him in his back from his sudden movement.

While the healer clucked and fussed over the pain-wracked youngster writhing on the bed, the king stood by and stared, and Galdor picked up sheets of paper from the floor.

After swallowing a vile concoction to numb the pain, Aryo faced his two visitors. They sat in two chairs at the foot of his bed, scrutinizing him gravely. His heart was hammering and he hoped he did not look as nervous as he felt.

“Are you better, _vinyamo?”_ asked Galdor.

 _Do I look that young?_ wondered Aryo. And the Lord of the Tree was speaking Quenya. Aryo had spoken little to anyone in the city, thus far, except when absolutely necessary, and when he had, he had been steadfast in speaking only Sindarin.

He frowned in some perplexity and shook his head. “ _Ú-chenion,_ _h_ _îr-n_ _ín.”_

Galdor smiled faintly and repeated the question in Sindarin.

“Better, _h_ _îr-n_ _ín,_ _le hannon,_ ” said Aryo, trying not to wince as the healer adjusted his sitting position in the bed.

“…healing could have been set back by a day,” muttered the healer crossly, propping Aryo up with pillows.

“Will he have to stay here long?” Galdor asked his healer.

The healer smoothed the blanket and frowned at the ink stain. “Another two days, perhaps. He is very young and is healing swiftly—but he must have his rest, _herunya_.”

“We shall not tire him.”

And after a deep bow to the king and his lord, the healer swept out.

The patient and his visitors regarded each other for a while.

“Do you know who I am, young Aros?” asked Turgon, speaking at last. He was not wearing his crown, but a simple gold circlet. His robes were a rich damask of deep green, embroidered with gold thread.

Aryo could not help but stare, seeing now the likeness that had eluded him before, when his image of himself had been dominated by his golden hair. “I think you must be King Turgon. The healer said that I had some likeness to you.”

“And you agree that you do?” The king gazed into the grey eyes of the young _ellon_. They were the deep grey of slate and a stormy sea, not the silver-grey of the House of Fingolfin, or the House of Fëanor. Oddly familiar dark-grey eyes… sea eyes…

“I think the healer flatters me too greatly, Aran.”

At that, a smile touched Turgon’s mouth. “I hear that you hail from Tol Eressëa.”

“Yes. From Alalminórë.”

“A beautiful land. I have just come from the city of Kortirion, by your forest. My brother’s betrothal feast. I returned to news that a young _ellon_ resembling me and my brothers had caused quite a stir in a _yuldacar_. Has no one ever told you that you look like a Fingolfinion?”

“My tribe is small. We have heard of Fingolfin and his court at Kortirion, but we do not go there.”

“Were you born there?”

“In Ennor, Aran.” He added, truthfully, “In Lothlórien.”

And so the conversation went. Yes, he knew the king’s cousin Lady Galadriel. No, she had never remarked on the likeness. No, his parents had not sailed. Turgon glanced at the sheets of paper Galdor had placed at the foot of the bed, and with the nonchalant presumption of a monarch reached for them. He flipped through the sketches. “This is good work,” he said, holding up a sheet with intricate designs of swords and scabbards. “Do you do more than draw them?”

“I make them, Aran. I am a smith.”

Galdor’s eyes narrowed. Turgon gave Aryo a calm look. “The designs are extraordinarily beautiful. If you could make them reality, they would be swords worth beholding.”

_I don’t just make pretty things, Aran. My swords would be lightweight and lethal, perfectly balanced, strong enough to shatter stone and bone._

Turgon continued to examine the papers. “This looks like the plan for an irrigation system.”

“It is. A very modest one. The one we have in our small field at home needed some improvement.”

Turgon stopped and stared for a long while at one sheet.

“A winsome young lady,” he remarked, showing a sheet covered with sketches of an _adaneth_ with dark hair and freckles. Smiling. Sitting by a campfire and gazing into it. Looking over her shoulder as she runs, and laughing.

Aryo flushed. _Your descendant._ “Someone I knew in Ennor.”

Turgon looked at the sketches. “An _adaneth_. I feel I know her as well, strangely…”

Aryo said nothing, but eyed the ink stain splashed across his blanket near his right knee.

Galdor sat silently, watching, listening. His glittering green eyes never left the face of the young _ellon_.

Turgon set the papers back on the bed. “Would you like to work in a smithy here?”

Aryo had meant to announce his intention to head home as soon as he was hale, to say that he had come here only to accompany his friend. But suddenly he had visions of the large smithies of Gondolin his mother had described to him, which according to her rivalled even those of the dwarves at Erebor. To actually behold them. To have all those facilities and tools to use. To learn new techniques, perhaps. To see other masters at work, and learn from them—

“I assure you no one else will mistake you for princes of the House of Fingolfin. Once you are well, go to the House of the Hammer and show Lord Rauco—Rog—what skills you have. He will see if there might be a place for you.”

 _To work with Rog. And_ _Nerdanel…_

_No, no, you fool. Go home. Play with your baby sister. Fix the irrigation._

“Would you like that, Aros?”

“Yes, Aran.”

 

He found them lying in the keep, surrounded by the bodies of the guards who had fallen defending them. He cradled her slender body in his arms, and wept into her dark hair. He tenderly stroked the face of his dead infant son and caressed the red curls on his tiny head…

“Galdor the brave,” whispered a cold, taunting voice, echoing in the dark keep.

Galdor looked about with a snarl. “Where are you, traitor?”

In his black, galvorn armour he stood before the Lord of the Tree, his obsidian eyes narrowed, a corner of his mouth twisting in a smile. But when Galdor hurled himself at the prince with a cry like a wounded beast, he vanished into the shadows.

“Here,” whispered the mocking voice behind Galdor. Again, the Lord of the Tree lunged, but his sword ate empty air.

“Or here,” whispered the voice close behind him.

Galdor turned too late. The black blade Anguirel pierced through his chainmail, and he fell to his knees staring into piercing obsidian eyes.

“You never deserved to live,” hissed the prince, contemptuously, as he wrenched out the black blade.

As his life-blood spilled forth, Galdor fell onto his side.

As he died choking on his blood, he saw the black eyes staring down at him fade to slate grey.

 

“They will have begun eating,” protested Ecthelion to the page who had been sent to him, “And I am not fit to present myself to my lord king without a bath and change of raiment first.” He pulled off his dusty, travel-stained tunic and tossed it across the room into a woven basket.

“Oh, but my lord Fountain, the King says to inform you that his chefs have prepared your favourite dishes,” said the blue-eyed page with a winning smile. “The lords tarry for your sake over the aperitifs, and will not sup till you come.”

Rather than feeling honoured, Ecthelion felt, rather irrationally, like the lamb fattened for the slaughter.

“Tell my lord king I shall hasten hence,” he said with a sigh.

The page dipped a low bow and sped away.

“Nossarto! No time for a bath!” called the Lord of the Fountain, stripping off his breeches on his way to the bath chamber.

“But my lord—” protested the valet in a pained voice, for he had just sprinkled Ecthelion’s favourite scent and oils upon the steaming water.

“No time, old friend. It will have to be a quick dip and dash.” Ecthelion picked up a wash sponge. “Lay out the silver robe trimmed with crystals and star sapphires. I sup with the king and the lords tonight.”

Hurrying to the dining hall, for the second time in two lives and six thousand years, Ecthelion prepared to explain to his liege lord why he had failed to return with his sister.

Greetings rang out as Ecthelion entered the hall where his king and his seven fellow lords were already seated before a sumptuous array of dishes. Ecthelion at once noted that the usual musicians were not present. Neither were the servers. Instead, the dishes had been placed on warm stones, and the desserts and drinks were on a sideboard, as was done whenever the king wished to discuss sensitive matters as he supped with his lords. Ecthelion greeted his comrades as he moved to the empty seat at the king’s right hand—Rog of the Hammer, Egalmoth of the Heavenly Arch, Duilin of the Swallow, Galdor of the Tree, Salgant of the Harp, Penlod of the House of the Pillar, and last of all, Penlod’s twin Penlos of the House of the Snow. All men in whom the king had the utmost trust and confidence.

The eighth lord had barely warmed his seat and taken more than a sip of wine and a morsel of trout before Turgon asked, “And what news of my sister and Laurefindil, Ecthelion?”

“You may set your heart at rest, _aranya_ ,” said the Lord of the Fountain. “Írissë and Laurefindil are innocent, for it is to another that our Lauro is wed. The Hammers mistook his wife for Írissë.”

Murmurs of wonder and some relief ran around the table, and Turgon took a sip of a goblet of fine red wine and sank back into the cushions of his high-backed chair, his silver eyes bright.

“Lauro wed! So the rumours were true,” exclaimed Egalmoth.

“At least this one of many, yes.”

Rog’s eyes flashed. “Sengeron and Sartamo are good men, but they deserve a stern word for spreading such slander—”

“Nay, Rauco,” said Ecthelion. “The lady’s likeness to Írissë is striking. None who saw her would blame the two Hammers for their error, especially as they saw her only from afar. I myself confused them at first.”

“And why did Írissë and Laurefindil not return hence with you?” asked Turgon.

“Írissë has never been fond of cities.”

“I would have hoped she loved and has forgiven her brother enough to at least visit his.”

“She waits in the deep woods in hope of the return of her husband one day.”

“That brute and savage? I would have thought her well rid of the murderous scum. She came to us, fleeing from him.”

“Love him she does, in spite of all. And since he would most likely have no desire to set foot in our city or any of the lands of Eldamar, she is set on awaiting him in the woods.”

“And what of Laurefindil and this bride of his?”

“She, too, has no desire to come to Eldamar. And he has no desire to leave her side.”

Looks were exchanged around the table.

“A _moriquend_ _ë?”_ asked Penlod, raising his eyebrows. “I did not think our bright, golden child of Vása would wed one of the unenlightened.”

“She has come to Aman. Those terms should surely apply no longer,” Ecthelion pointed out.

“True,” said Salgant with a nod. “What is she, then? Wood elf, mountain elf?”

“A bit of both. Need she be labelled? She is a _n_ _ís.”_

Turgon took a mouthful from his plate. “If they will not come hence, perhaps I should go to them.”

“It is a thousand leagues south, _aranya._ The way is long and hard, rocky and hilly.”

“You sound as though you seek to dissuade me, Ecthelion.” The silver eyes were piercing.

“They will come to us, some day, _aranya_. When they are ready.”

“Very well.” Turgon leaned back and swirled wine in his goblet. “Tell us more… about Laurefindil’s wife. How fascinating that she should resemble my sister. Is the likeness very great?”

“At first glance, yes. Not enough to be a twin, but one would think them sisters.”

“Or… mother and child?”

Ecthelion took a mouthful of wine and set his goblet down carefully. “Yes, _aranya._ I suppose one _could_ think that as well.”

“Interesting,” said Turgon. “We have for _centuries_ watched nissi throw themselves at Laurefindil and wondered when or if he would ever give his heart to any—and what manner of _n_ _ís_ it would take to conquer him. Tell us what this _n_ _ís_ is like—her hair, stature, eyes, voice, nature. Spare no detail.”

 “Mountain of Manwë, my lady wife would certainly wish to know!” exclaimed Salgant. “Her hair, now. Is the hair of Laurefindil’s chosen _vess_ _ë_ as much a wonder as his?” The Harp loved gossip most among all the lords, and his wife was ever his excuse.

“No hair but that of Princess Artanis could match Laurefindil’s,” said Ecthelion evenly, carefully spearing a quail with his knife and placing it on his plate.

“That tells us nothing of what the lady’s is like. It is raven like Írissë’s, one would assume?”

“Yes. Raven.”

“For a songwriter and poet, you are amazingly niggardly with the details, Fountain. Is her hair wavy like the ripples of wind across a wheatfield? Straight as a ray of sunlight? Curly as the new fronds on a fern?” asked Salgant.

However much Ecthelion had considered what he might need to say on his homecoming, this nonsensical fuss over Maeglin’s tresses could not have been foreseen.

“Straight. Why should her _hair_ matter, Harp? For Eru’s sake, ’twas not for _that_ Laurefindil wed her!” said Ecthelion far more tetchily than he was wont.

“Calm down, Fountain,” laughed Egalmoth. “I, on my part, am also curious to know more about this wondrous _n_ _ís_ who has succeeded in snaring our Flower—and so enthralled him that he has forsaken us.”

“As would all females who ever offered themselves in vain to the Flower in days of yore, I am sure,” said Duilin with a twinkle in his blue-grey eyes.

“Well, I say it is lamentable if an excess of peace and good living has reduced us to fussing over such meaningless trivia. Laurefindil has fallen in love with a good _n_ _ís_ and is happy and settled and that is all we need to know.”

Turgon had been silently swirling the wine in his goblet. Now he spoke. “My lord Fountain, Laurefindil being my foster grandson, I fear the meaningless trivia fascinates me no less than it does the others. So. We have settled that his wife has straight raven hair. Now—what might be the colour of this beauty’s eyes?”

Ecthelion picked at the tiny wing of the quail. “Her eyes are dark, _aranya.”_

“Dark? How very imprecise. Violet dark? Slate dark? Rosewood dark?”

“Jet-stone dark,” said Ecthelion in a voice that was just audible.

“Hair of jet, and eyes of jet. How very striking. And how very rare. How many others do we know with such an appearance?”

Silence fell upon the room.

“I hear it is not that rare among some of the tribes of the _quendi_ ,” said Ecthelion.

“Rare enough that all of us have only ever encountered two with such colouring,” said Rog, beginning to frown and look puzzled as he saw the expression on Turgon’s face.

“It is likely to have been more common among the tribes of the east, in the lands nearer to the waters of awakening. And Laurefindil has spent the past five millennia of his life in those lands,” said Ecthelion.

“In all the influx of _quendi_ from all the lands of Endórë who have disembarked at Avallonë, I have not known of one with eyes of jet,” said Galdor darkly, speaking for the first time. “ _Aranya_ , what is your meaning? What is it you suspect?”

“Perhaps Ecthelion could first tell us the name of Laurefindil’s wife,” said Turgon.

Eight pairs of eyes bored into Ecthelion. _Here it comes,_ he thought. He laid down his knife. He swallowed some wine and set down his goblet.

“Lómiel,” he said calmly.

And watched as the storm broke.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Apsa [Q] – meat, cooked food

Aros [S] – the name of a river in Beleriand in the First Age. It probably came to mind because of its similarity to Aryo’s name. It should translate to “noble foam” which is OK for a river and not _that_ odd for an elf.

Cúmaen [S] – skilled bow

Heruvinya [Q]  - my lords

Istarnië [Q] – skilled one (female). I decided to use the rejected version of Nerdanel’s name for her daughter. I formed a Sindarin version of the name - Curunel – but gave up on it as being too confusing for readers.

Luhim [S] – lu = time/season, him = cool/cold

Miros [Gnomish] – wine

Nénalin [Q] – singing water

Nildë [Q] – friend [female]. A synonym for “heldë”.

Oronan {Q] – high valley

Othol [S] – stranger/guest

Rasco [Q] – horn (I’m choosing to interpret it as a hunting horn.) As for his sister, I worked out a Sindarin name for him – Rom – but discarded it so as not to make things too confusing.

Selyë [Q] – a dimunitive of “daughter”. Rather like calling your grown child “baby”, I think.

Sennas [S] – guesthouse [there is likely to be a mix of Sindarin and Quenya in the city though the lords and the king use Quenya almost exclusively in their own households]

Ú-chenion [S] – I do not understand

Vinyamo [Q] – young person

Yuldacar [Q+Noldorin] – yulda [“drink”] + car [“building”]

 

* * *

_Notes_

_Alas, dreamingfifi of Realelvish.net has not been around for a few months, so I have been on my own for the elvish names & translations, and can only hope I’ve done a decent job of it._

_Penlos (“los” = snow) —I headcanon that he was Penlod’s twin and died before Maeglin came to Gondolin—perhaps captured by orcs and taken to Angband. That would be why Penlod was Lord of both the Houses of the Pillar and the Snow._

_I have let slide a lot of the switching between Sindarin and Quenya names to avoid confusion. E.g. I translated the Sindarin of Alalmin_ _ór_ _ë as Lalwennor or Dor-lalwen, but decided to just stick with the original Quenya throughout. Rasco and Istarni_ _ë would be Rom and Curunel in Sindarin, but I decided not to get confusing with the OC names, so I’ve also kept to the Quenya regardless of whether Sindarin or Quenya is being spoken. Generally,  wherever Tolkien himself provided both the Quenya and Sindarin names, I switched according the language being spoken, but followed the Silmarillion convention in using Sindarin for the narrative._

 _After the destruction of Laurelin and Telperion, Yavanna had created Galathilion which had many seedlings, one of which was named Celeborn which was planted on Tol Eress_ _ëa, and Celeborn was the parent of Nimloth the White Tree of N_ _úmenor. It isn’t far-fetched at all to imagine groves of celebyrn flourishing across Eldamar, since the elves loved the silver leaves so much._


	42. Truth Will Out

The evening had begun so promisingly for the little cat. Fluffy white tail hoisted high like a flag, her coat had gleamed like snow in the moonlight, and her dainty promenade along the edge of the Great Fountain in the King’s Square had drawn admiration from a couple of rakish tomcats from the House of the Harp. “ _But I can do better,”_ she thought to herself, looking away with her pink nose proudly lifted, _“Not for me any stable or kitchen riff-raff. For I am a Cat of the House of the King!”_

Then she saw him—the most beautiful tomcat in Alcarinos—leaping from an embrasure of the House of the Heavenly Arch to a parapet wall. And so dazzled was she by this vision of grace and power, and by the sleekness and shine of his grey tiger-coat, that she failed to notice the large red retriever bounding up till he was upon her. With a sharp hiss and yowl of pure fright, she fell into the fountain, floundered in deep water, wildly scrabbled her way back to dry land, then shot up a nearby wall with the retriever still in hot pursuit.

“Titto!” shouted an elfling, “Titto! Stop that! Bad dog!”

High above on a window ledge, the little cat shivered, dripping wet, ears flattened, her fluffy coat now bedraggled. Silvery, melodious laughter rang out from the crowd of elves below. Oh, the ignominy! She dared not look at the Harp tomcats she had scorned, nor at the magnificent feline of the Heavenly Arch.

Waterlogged tail low, she slunk through a high window of the dining hall. Around a long table sat her king and his lords, and as their eyes turned to an eighth lord who entered elegantly garbed in white and silver, she was able to creep beneath a sideboard unseen. There she hid, and nursed her wounded pride.

Elsewhere in the city, as the people of Alcarinos filled the streets with the songs and dances of Meren Calameneldë—the Feast of Heavenly Lights—a young archer was in a bedchamber at the House of the Hammer cajoling his twin.

 “Come on, Aryo,” the younger twin said. “You’re well enough now for just a dance or two!”

Aryo knew the healer of the Tree would have disagreed violently with this assessment. “Go,” he told his twin with a sigh. “I must needs rest.” After three days of light tasks in the Hammer’s smithy, he was itching to do real work. He was not about to risk anything that might interfere with his healing.

And Arman sensed at once that Aryo hoped for his company for the night. “No one knows we are twins. I’ve already skipped the festivities for two evenings, and it would look mighty strange if I spend every night here with you.”

“And we wouldn’t want that, would we?” Sitting down on his bed, Aryo gingerly laid himself down. “Go. I’m fine.”

The Swallows were delightfully merry companions, and the early hours of the evening passed happily—until Arman sighted a pair of twins walking with linked arms through the crowd, and felt the void at his side with a sharp pang. He would go back to Aryo, he decided. Leaving the King’s Square, he headed to the north of the city where the House of the Hammer lay, his face turning heads as he went, but so accustomed to this was he that he barely noticed it.

Rána journeyed high in the sky and silvered the world with his radiance. In the midst of this sea of blue-white coldness, an unmistakable gleam of warm red caught Arman’s eye among the revellers.

A tall, slender figure vanished through a great stone arch over which flew sun-rayed banners. Her head was covered with a veil, but the wind had blown a lock of hair loose, and cold Rána had no power to quench the flame of those fiery strands.

Arman had not seen Nárriel for five days—not since he had sighted her from afar among the spectators at the Golden Arrow tournament. Irresistibly drawn, he slipped through the revellers in the street, then hesitated on the threshold of the House of the Golden Flower.

After a week in the city, he had not yet set foot there. For was it not one of those unspoken understandings between twins that he and Aryo should explore their _Atto’s_ House together? He gazed up at the flowers carved into the stone arch, at the green-and-gold banners fluttering in the alpine breeze…

_Come here another time, with Aryo at your side. Go to the House of the Hammer now._

But a moment later he was walking in wonder and no little pleasure through the famous gardens of the Golden Flower, past tall fountains that blessed him with a fine mist when the breezes blew, and past lush flower beds and shadowy arbours whose large blossoms danced and swayed, drunk with silver moonlight, and bowed towards him spilling forth heady draughts of perfume. There were few people around, for most were at the celebrations in the streets and the Great Square.

And there were the statues in white marble. Arman saw with a shock of delight that the gardens were a memorial for the Golden Flower’s long-lost, beloved lord. There stood a stern-faced Glorfindel in his armor, sword raised in an attack during the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. Here was a laughing Glorfindel playing with the children of the House, over there a smiling Glorfindel riding a horse, around the corner an elegant Glorfindel glancing over his shoulder and garbed in his lord’s robes and a circlet…

For his son, it was surreal. For a while he forgot what had drawn him through the entrance, and he lingered at each statue, caught by how lifelike each one was, and any who passed by might have noted how the smile that glowed on his young face was a living echo of the smile that graced the marble face of the Lord of the Golden Flower.

He wandered by small paths past flowers of every hue and shape and scent, and in a shadowy nook where goldenchain trees in full flower grew, he saw a statue of his Atto that at once became his favourite. The life-sized statue, in tunic and doublet, breeches and boots, sat on the edge of a small fountain in a relaxed and casual pose—ankle crossed over knee, leaning forward with his chin resting on his hand, and a warm, attentive smile on his face that seemed to say to an invisible friend seated next to him, “ _Really? And then what happened?”_

Arman took the space of the unseen companion next to the statue, so that he could look into its fair, familiar marble face. _“What happens if you love one who loves another, Atto?”_ he thought. _“And what happens if you’ve told so many lies you could never show your real self to her?”_

He caught a movement at the corner of his eye, and quickly turned his head. She stood in the shadows of the goldenchain trees, and for a moment, wide-eyed, looked like a deer about to flee. Then she composed herself and walked towards him with her restless, willowy grace. In her dress of deep grey, her hair covered with a soft, moss-coloured veil, she looked like one in mourning… which she was, he supposed. Mourning the death of a dream and a hope.

 _“Mai omentaina_ , Nárriel.” He stood and bowed.

 _“Mai omentaina_ , Cúmaen,” she replied in a gracious enough tone, though her face did not suggest the meeting was welcome. Of course, Arman thought. What was he to her but a reminder of a night most wretched? She was almost as tall as he, lithe and willowy yet strong. And now that she was neither drunken nor dishevelled, nor with eyes puffy from weeping, she looked so lovely at close range that she took his breath away. Again he wondered that a creature so doe-like could have tossed his brother across a room. A doe of steel and fire, he thought. Her heart-shaped face was sweet, but the set of her mouth hinted at a wilful spirit. For a moment he thought she would walk right past him and carry on her way—but she halted.

“Almion speaks much of you,” she said. “He is so proud of the little bow and quiver of arrows you gave him today. They are beautifully crafted.”

Arman smiled. “I took much pleasure in crafting them.” And he had Aryo’s aid in making the tiny arrowheads.

“Are they not dangerous toys, though, for an elfling so young?”

“I received my first bow and quiver when I was little older than two _coran_ _ári_. And I have cautioned him sternly, and given him his first lesson as my father did me. He learns quickly and listens well. I do not imagine he will hurt himself or others.”

The mention of hurting others brought to mind an awkward subject for both.

“How does your friend?” she murmured, guilt and genuine concern in her huge green eyes. She had an amazingly expressive face, he thought. It was transparent as a mountain stream, every nuance of thought and emotion flitting across it. He did not realize that the same could be said for his own.

“Very well. He will be as good as new in no time,” he said reassuringly.

She looked abashed. “I am sorry as well that I struck you, that night.”

He recalled the strength of those slender fists as they had pounded him in fury. “Oh, ’twas nothing… not that I belittle your strength,” he added hurriedly. “Those were hits as hard as ever I received from many a male opponent _._ ” He briefly thought of tavern brawls in Minas Tirith. “But I minded it not. You were very upset. I was glad not to be he you wished indeed to strike.” Instantaneously, he regretted reminding her of her woe, and as she reddened, he did as well. “Did your father train you to fight?” he asked.

“Oh, no.” A corner of her mouth quirked slightly. “It is amazing what comes naturally, when one is angry enough.”

They heard several voices approach, and she abruptly darted like a skittish deer into an alcove grown over with a vine laden with many-petalled yellow flowers. After a moment’s hesitation, Arman slipped behind the trunk of a goldenchain, his years in the Woodland Realm and his now-dark hair making invisibility simple.

“Why did you hide?” he asked, slipping out from the shadow of the tree once the revellers had passed.

She hung back still, in the shadows of the alcove, “I am sick unto death of the looks and the whispers of the city,” she muttered in a low, angry voice. “A whole week of it. Foolish Nárriel. Crazy Nárriel. Poor, poor Nárriel.” She looked pensive, her brow furrowed. “The last is the worst. When they mock my stupidity, it is no more than I deserve. But I abhor the pity.”

“I do not pity you. Nor think you foolish nor crazy.”

She met the frank, adoring gaze of his azure eyes. “I believe you do not,” she said softly. And for the first time he saw a wan, gentle smile touch her lips.

He felt himself blush. Looking away, he suddenly took a great interest in their surroundings. “It is a beautiful garden.”

“The fairest in the city, and one of the wonders of Eldamar. This corner has become my refuge from the scrutiny of the city—and of my own House. You cannot imagine how stifling it has been in my household. The air is thick with worry and concern, as though they fear I might shatter like glass. Someone is set to watch over me constantly. So I give them the slip, as now, and run here. There is always a peace here.”

She curled her long legs up on one of the stone seats in the alcove, and wrapped her strong, slender arms around her knees. “Why am I telling you all this? We are strangers... and yet I feel I have known you long.”

“Perhaps the manner of our meeting cut some corners for us in feeling familiar.” He took another of the stone seats, an arm’s length away from her.

“Perhaps.” She smiled a second time. “Tell me of your home. Of Alalminórë and its great groves of giant elm, tall as hills.”

The golden flowers that framed the alcove seemed to lean in to listen, and beyond them he saw the eyes of his father’s statue regarding him. _Now what will you say?_ Arman averted his eyes from that marble gaze, and stared at the soft, warm glow of the blossoms for a long while. Then he turned his head and met her green eyes with the clear, open gaze of his azure ones. “I am not from Alalminórë, Nárriel. It was a lie.”

Her eyebrows lifted, but she looked unsurprised. “So Rasco was right. He has mistrusted and misliked you from the beginning, and muttered against you to me.” She narrowed her eyes and her expression grew cool and critical. “So who are you, where are you from, and why did you lie?”

“I cannot explain why, except to say that it is to protect my family. That Cúmaen is my  name is no lie, for the Silvan elves gave me that _epess_ _ë_. But I am called most oft by my father-name Arman. And as for where I am from…” He hesitated, then said in a rush, “I was born in Endórë, and came to Aman but a few years past.” He looked at her entreatingly. “Do not expose me. Please.”

She paused and scrutinized him thoughtfully for a while, twirling one of her fiery tresses around a finger.

“To protect your family? One has heard many dark tales of the lands over the sea, of evil plots and wars and intrigues. But no one has cause to fear or hide, surely, in Aman.”

He was silent, and looked away. “I have already said too much.”

“Why confess to me? Why tell me anything at all?”

“I know not. I guess… I know too little of Alalminórë to say anything about it.”

“It seems to me you are hopeless at pretence and a very poor liar. But I like you the better for it.” She regarded him gravely and tilted her head to her side. “Very well. I shall say naught. But it is Rasco you should fear, not I. You have undone yourself, it seems. If you are from Endórë indeed, how speak you Quenya so well? Even if you be of Noldorin blood, I hear they converse not in Quenya in this age. Do you still claim Prince Findaráto as a tutor?”

“No.” He sighed. “I… really should say nothing further. I never thought it would come to this, when we came to Alcarinos. All we wanted was to see the beauty of this city we had heard so much of, then return home.”

“We? Oh, your friend, Aros. Or is that not his name either?”

“It is not. Please, I can say no more.” He had to leave now, he thought. He could not lie to her, and each moment he stayed, he weakened and gave away more than he meant to.

But when he half-rose from his seat, she laid a white hand on his wrist, and a shock like a bolt of lightning ran up his arm, and lingered when her hand withdrew.

“Nay, stay awhile,” she said. “I am a very great fool it seems, and will now be even more of one than people think me. For though nothing makes sense about you, yet you… you make me… trust you.”  She frowned, perplexed, her huge green eyes glittering in the alcove. “And I would have thought… I would never trust a _n_ _ér_ again.”

And Arman would have been more foolish by far and told her all at that moment, but that a flurry of russet-red fur bounded into the alcove, landed its paws upon Nárriel’s lap, and enthusiastically began licking her face.

 _“Ai!_ Down, Titto!” cried Nárriel.

“ _Titto?_ Who named him _that?”_ asked Arman, as the large retriever leapt joyfully onto him. He laughed as a very wet tongue slapped across his cheek.

“My father,” said Nárriel fondly ruffling the dog’s fur. “He was the runt of his litter, though you’d not guess it to see him now.”

“Narë! Narë!” called an elfling’s voice and soon Almion stood framed in moonlight at the entrance of the alcove, his little bow and quiver proudly strapped on his back. The small child grinned with delight to see Arman there. “You here too? Hurry, hurry! There are fireworks at the Heavenly Arch!” The elfling was dancing with excitement as he pulled at Arman’s hand.

“Nay, Almion, I—I should head home now,” said Arman half-heartedly.

Nárriel smiled at her nephew and her green eyes glittered bright as she rose to her feet. Removing the veil from her head, she draped it around her shoulders like a stole and freed her flaming hair.  “Do not disappoint Almion. Join us, Cúmaen, I beg you.”

And as they left the House of the Golden Flower, the red retriever gambolled ahead of them, and they saw brief glimpses of fire-blossoms light the sky above the rooftops. Nárriel took her little nephew by one hand, and slipped her other into the crook of Arman’s arm.

“Let us give the pitiers something else to talk about, shall we… Arman?” she whispered in his ear.

Aryo might have clobbered his twin, had he been there, and cried out, _Run, you prize idiot! She will use you to spite him and break your heart. She is flame and you’re the moth._

But Aryo was half a city away. With the warmth of her hand on his arm, as fireworks blossomed across the heavens, and tendrils of fiery hair were blown by the cold night breeze against his cheek and hand, Arman had no thought of his twin.

 

Aryo slept but briefly.

He awakened with visions of palantíri in his head, for in his dreams he had gazed into the master stone at Tol Eressëa. That stone had once been linked to the stone at Elostirion—a stone given to the descendants of Elros, which for millennia had been the only window the Noldorin exiles had to their lost home west. Elrond had carried the Elostirion stone back to Aman, and it now sat at the top of Eärendil’s tower, linked to every other palantír in Eldamar once more. The last palantíri of the Númenoreans left in Ennor were now bent, broken things tainted by madness and Sauron’s eye. The window east to the mortal lands was shut.

Yet in Aryo’s dream the master stone he gazed into had wandered freely like the great eagles over the lands of Ennorath, through Imladris and Eryn Lasgalen, then down south where a lady dark-haired and grey of eye stood by the sea, the coronet of Dol Amroth upon her head…

And as Aryo lay on the bed, he thought, _I can make one._ _A palant_ _ír whose eye can traverse the ocean, and see the far shore—that might even see the farthest corners of Arda…_

And so afire to start work was he that within minutes he was dressed and on his way to the forges of the House of the Hammer, his bag of crystal rocks and tools slung over his shoulder. There were always smiths at work there, any hour of the day or night, but he was pleased to see that the workshop he had been assigned to was empty. The next half hour passed in a happy daze of work.

Suddenly, a voice called out in Sindarin, “Aros. You do not join the revels?”

Almost dropping his tools, Aryo turned a little too sharply to see Istarnië standing at the doorway of the workshop. He almost winced as his back twinged.

It was the first time he saw the daughter of the Hammer in a dress. She was not very tall but strongly built, like her father and mother, and she had strong, dark eyebrows, a square jaw and a cleft chin. When he had first seen her in her smith’s apron and breeches and boots, he had thought her a rather beautiful _n_ _ér_ before he recognized her as one of Nárriel’s companions in the yuldacar. Now, in a dark red gown with flowing bell-sleeves that flattered her broad shoulders, and her dark brown hair tumbling in loose waves over her shoulders and softening the square line of her jaw, she at last looked feminine.

 _“H_ _íril-n_ _ín,”_ he said with a small bow.

“I saw a light,” she said, sauntering forward as though she was still in her breeches and boots. “The others are all at the feast. I thought for a moment I had left a lamp on.”

For this was her workshop. She had three assistants who worked there with her, and Aryo had just become her apprentice. Her workbenches—she had four of them, laden with various ambitious projects and an enviable array of highly-specialized tools—ran alongside Aryo’s. He had discovered, much to his disgust and annoyance, that he had been stationed there largely so that Istarnië could watch over him. And to his mortification, a narrow pallet had been set up in the corner next to his workbench, for the healer of the Tree had ordered that he neither sit nor stand for too long.

So every three hours for the last three days, Istarnië had broken his flow of work with a calm command.

“Aros, it is time you should rest. Lie down awhile.”

“Aros, stand and stretch your legs. You have sat too long. Here. Take this to Sartamo for me in the west wing.”

And worst of all, “Aros, don’t lift that. Let Tincarmo do that for you.”

By the end of the first day he was tempted to snarl back, “I am fine! I know when I need rest. You are neither my healer nor my _Amil!_ You’re not even that much older than I, to be my master, and I your apprentice! _”_

But calm and gentle as her voice was, there was something formidable about her that would brook no argument. And looking at the muscle definition on those arms, he would not have been surprised if she had serenely strode over, lifted him bodily like a child, and deposited him onto that pallet had he refused. Having been embarrassed once by her friend in the yuldacar, he was not going to risk being humiliated in the smithy. So he would merely say, “Allow me to finish this step first, _h_ _íril-n_ _ín.”_ And finishing it and catching her glance his way, he would obediently make his way to the pallet.

Thankfully, the light work she had assigned him made these irritations worth it. The tasks were interesting and he relished them—very fine, detailed metalwork for various components and implements—and they signified a certain amount of trust in both his skill and artistry that Angurunír had never accorded him. And as he observed her at work, he had to admire her talent and her skill. So he swallowed his annoyance and exasperation, and she, observing his work unobtrusively, merely nodded approval and let him get on with it. She was sufficiently impressed, he could tell. He could hardly wait to be given heavier work and demonstrate the full range of his skills.

At this moment, as Istarnië walked towards him, Aryo was standing before his work table trying unsuccessfully to hide the raw chunks of _maril_ scattered on it. She stood at his side.

“Very fine stones,” she said, eyeing the translucent white, golden and pink rocks as they sat glowing on his table. “What do you plan to do with them?” She picked up one, a gold streaked through with amber and rose, and contemplated it.

“Make a lamp. Perhaps necklaces.”

“I did not know your interest lay there.” She set the rock down as though it was a living thing and folded her muscled arms, looking thoughtful. The restfulness in her strength struck him. “Would you prefer if I assigned you to Enerdhil?” she said at last. The work there was light, she thought, and the gentle jewelsmith would fuss over Aros like a mother hen and ensure he rested and healed fully.

Would Aryo choose apprenticeship to a smith less than half a _y_ _én_ older than himself, or a smith who was a legend? That was easy. _The opportunity to work with a true master, one of the greatest jewelsmiths who ever breathed… and one who once served Amil. Arman, eat your heart out._ “I love working with both metal and stone, _h_ _íril-n_ _ín_. Yes, I would like to work under Enerdhil.” And he wondered if Istarnië on her part would be glad to rid her workshop of a nuisance.

“Good. I shall introduce you to him tomorrow.” She smiled, and it lit her face with a warmth he had not seen before. Aryo found himself smiling in return.

Just then someone at the doorway cleared his throat. They turned to see a lean, wiry smith standing there hesitantly, clad in his apron and girded with his belt of tools. “ _Herinya_ … I would like to start work if I may,” he mumbled in Quenya.

There was something about the tentative way he spoke, the way his shoulders hunched slightly, that disturbed Aryo. It was more than deference, it was a diffidence that he had never seen before in an _edhel_.

“Ah, Eneldur. I did not expect you to begin till the morrow,” said Istarnië. “Come. I will explain the work to you.”

 _Eneldur_. Why did Aryo find the name familiar? Had his parents ever mentioned this _n_ _ér?_ And he realized that this was one the others had spoken of in the workshop earlier that day.

“…been in Aulë’s halls the past _y_ _én_.”

“Should stay there. There are already too many of _his_ kind here.”

“Filthy Mole. Hope he won’t join _our_ crew.”

“The Lord’s decided. He’ll be with us.”

“ _Muk_.”

At this, Istarnië had risen from her workbench and strode up to her men, her grey eyes smouldering with anger. “There are _no more Moles_. His parents are Hammers. He was a Hammer born and bred, and is one again. Aulë speaks well of him, and are you wiser than a vala? None of this muttering and complaining, or you can take it up with my father if you dare. You will give him welcome and accept him as one of our own, or you will answer to me.”

As Istarnië briefed Eneldur at the far end of the workshop, Aryo shoved his crystals back into his bag. He would finish all that Istarnië had set him to do before he was re-assigned to Enerdhil, he decided, bringing out sheet metal and taking it to heat at the forge. At Enerdhil’s workshops, he would doubtless find time to resume his palantíri project. He glanced at Eneldur with curiosity and some excitement. Like Enerdhil, this man had been a Mole and had served Aryo’s mother Maeglin in the first life. With four thousand other men he had bowed knee to the prince, and remained blindly loyal even when asked to do the unspeakable—to turn kinslayer for love of his master.

Enerdhil… he was the exception, for the peaceful jewelsmith had never lifted a weapon in his life. He had been taken to the Havens by Idril, and sailed west with Galdor.

But this Eneldur was most likely one of the _ohtari_ of the Mole who had battled Tuor and the House of the Wing. No wonder he did not wish to go forth into the streets and courtyards and partake of the festivities, but chose to hide and lose himself here in the middle of the night, seeking comfort in his craft. What had compelled him to leave Aulë for the House of the Hammer? Probably family, perhaps one or two remaining friends. _His parents are Hammers. He was a Hammer born and bred._

How many Moles were there now in this House? Would Aryo be able to spot them among the Hammers? _Did they all wear the same cowed air of shame? Act like dogs expecting to be kicked? What might it be like to speak to Eneldur of his memories of Gondolin? Would his recollections of Maeglin be fond or foul?_

_Do I want to go there?_

Aryo realized suddenly that while he had been lost in thought and intent on the warm sheet metal he was now shaping on a pitch, Istarnië had left. He saw that the other smith was staring at him intently, a curious expression on his face. The new smith moved closer to Aryo. He had an oval-shaped, gentle face framed with wavy dark-chestnut hair, and large, wide-set eyes that gave him an expression of child-like wonder.

 _“Vinyamo,”_ he said, his pale blue eyes glittering bright. “Where did you learn that technique of chasing metal?”

His chasing hammer and steel chisel still held poised in his hands, Aryo gazed at the newcomer uncertainly. “ _Ú-chenion, mellon,”_ he said courteously.

Eneldur repeated the question in Sindarin.

“From my master in Ennor.”

“And what is the name of your master?”

Aryo hesitated for only a moment. “Angurunír.” The stiff-necked despot would be forever in Ennor, and was safe enough to name, he hoped.

Eneldur’s shoulders had relaxed and he was standing taller. The pale blue eyes had an almost feverish gleam as they scrutinized Aryo’s face. “I know not that name. But I saw my master develop that distinctive technique and style of chasing in our smithy, many years past. I did not think to see it again. None of us could master it as he did. None. And yet… you have perfected it. For a moment I thought I saw him at work again.”

“How very, very strange.” Aryo regarded Eneldur warily. “And what was _your_ master’s name?”

 Eneldur’s face suddenly was just as guarded and wary.  “Laithron,” he said quietly. _One whose memory has been blotted out._

“A hard and demanding taskmaster, was my Angurunír. What of your Laithron?” asked Aryo, also quietly. There was something confidential, almost conspiratorial, about their conversation, as in hushed voices they discussed masters whose true names could not be uttered.

“There’s naught wrong with a master who is hard and demanding if he draws out the excellence in you. He made us proud of ourselves.” Eneldur’s eyes misted over slightly as he looked away. “They called him proud and grim, cold and cunning. But he took care of his own, _pen-gwain._ He took care of his own. He desired the world think him iron and stone. But we who were his—we knew him.” He looked at Maeglin’s son. “He had a heart. Too much heart. His eyes pierced right through you, and many feared and hated him. But not us. When he looked at me, I would have followed him to the edge of Ekkaia and back.” A shadow darkened Eneldur’s face, his eyes haunted suddenly by memories more dreadful than Aryo could imagine. His shoulders slumped once more.

There was a lump in Aryo’s throat. He did not trust himself to speak.

Eneldur looked down at the intricate chasing on the curved metal, and his lip trembled. “Fine work, _pen-gwain_ ,” he muttered. “Fine work.”

And with an abrupt nod, he returned to his end of the room, and started work.

He did not look at Aryo again.

 

At that very moment, across the city, the Lord of the Fountain pushed aside his plate of plump roasted quail, his appetite quite gone, and reached for his goblet to take another swig of strong wine.

The shocked voices of the other lords had erupted across the table.

“ _L_ _ómiel—?”_

“Did Lómion have a _sister—?”_

“So Írissë _is_ her _Amil—?”_

“Laurefindil married Lómion’s _sister—?”_

“He said he was an only child—”

“Írissë mentioned _nothing_ of a daughter—”

“— _knew_ we could never trust anything he said—”

“—the secretive, cunning wretch—”

“Does Laurefindil even _know—?”_

Ecthelion lifted his hand and commanded a moment of silence to speak: “Laurefindil’s lady is indeed Írissë’s child. And yes, of course he is fully aware of it.”

“The sister of the traitor,” said Duilin. “ _That_ is why they shun this place.”

“But just as we would never hold Lómion’s treachery against Írissë, we should hold it not against his sister,” said Penlod.

 _“Ná._ They are innocent,” assented his twin, Penlos.

 _“Innocent?_ If she is the same blood as the traitor,” said Galdor harshly, “then the blood of the Dark Elf runs in her, and his black magic and evil nature.”

At that, Salgant shuddered and made a sign against evil.

“Be not so quick to judge, Galdor,” said Duilin. “Even were she Lómion’s twin, she is not _him_ and shares no guilt _.”_

“She may not be the traitor,” said Galdor, “but I would as soon trust Thuringwethil as trust her.”

Much as Ecthelion misliked where this talk was heading, he held his tongue. He would refute nothing, he would affirm nothing. He had spoken naught but the truth, and they had leapt to their own conclusions. _A lesser evil than their knowing the reality,_ he thought.  If his silence perpetuated a deception that protected Glorfindel and Maeglin’s secret, he would allow it.

Turgon had also listened silently, leaning back in his chair and looking from one lord to another. But now at last he spoke. “Ecthelion. There is one more thing.”

“ _Aranya?_ ”

“Was there not a child?”

The other lords murmured. Ecthelion, nonplussed, hesitated for a moment. “There was, _aranya,”_ he said. “But how did you—?”

“You see, I believe I have met this bride of Laurefindil’s,” Turgon said in measured tones. “At my great-grandson’s home, five years past, there was a babe born on Ulmo’s Day. And there was, of course, a mother. A lovely creature, very like in face to Írissë, and with rare, rare eyes of jet black.” He paused, and took up his goblet from the table. “Her name, in the Sindarin tongue, was Aduialiel.”

“Ah… in Quenya, Lómiel,” murmured Salgant unnecessarily.

“Yes. How very strange that I failed to see it then. I suspect some magic to cloud the mind was at work there.”

“ _Black_ magic?” Salgant looked appalled, and raised his hand in the sign against evil again. Galadriel would have been more amused than affronted.

“Black magic!” Galdor affirmed. “Of course. It was surely her accursed sorcerer father’s wizardry at work.”

“What are you suggesting?” said Rog to Galdor with a frown. “That this bride of Laurefindil’s could have bewitched him into marriage as once Írissë was bewitched?”

“ _Ai!_ Did I not earlier speak the words ‘ _ensnare_ ’ and _‘enthral’?”_ murmured Egalmoth. “Shades of Mandos, it may be so indeed. Poor Laurefindil.”

“I believe it _is_ so,” said Galdor. “As the sorcerer sought to estrange Írissë from her kin, has not this _n_ _ís_ alienated Laurefindil from his friends and his people?”

This was not a turn Ecthelion could stomach. “Having met Laurefindil and this _n_ _ís_ , I can assure all of you that she is no witch, and Laurefindil is as much himself as he has ever been.”

“You lived with them awhile, did you not?” asked Turgon, and though he spoke softly, every murmur was silenced.

“I was ten days a guest under their roof. They are as normal and loving a family as any mother and father with their small child would be.”

“Ah, yes. The child. Let us speak of the small child.” The king rose from his seat, towering over them with his imposing height. Goblet in hand, he walked to the sideboard with his magnificent robes of crimson velvet sweeping the floor behind him. He drew all eyes to him as he reached for the decanter of wine. Ecthelion managed not to look perplexed, but suddenly, and unaccountably, his heart sank.

“A little maid whom you distressed highly, Ecthelion,” said Turgon, as he raised the decanter and poured wine into his goblet. “For you had another name for her mother. Did you not? One that a child could not understand, and could not accept.” He set down the decanter and took a drink.

The lords were looking at their king, puzzled but expectant. Ecthelion sat very still, his silver eyes glittering like the diamonds adorning the slender braids in his hair, his flawless features like a statue’s.

“And it confounded me as much as it did the child,” mused Turgon, leaning casually against the sideboard and frowning down at the wine in his goblet as he swirled it. “For this past month, I have thought of every possible explanation under the sun and stars. I returned to the palantír daily in the hopes of meeting the little maid again, or finding her place of habitation, but found nothing. And Itarillë, who I swear knows something, will tell me naught. She smiles mysteriously, shakes her head, and kisses my cheek sweetly. And now, at last, Ecthelion, you are here.”

His favourite dishes had been prepared for him when he had been back in the city but half an hour, Ecthelion thought. The impatient king must have had a watch set for him high in the mountains, and known of his approach when he was still a very long way off.

“Put my mind at rest, Ecthelion. Tell me…” Turgon lifted his eyes and looked penetratingly at the Lord of the Fountain, silver meeting silver. “…why did you call the little maid’s _Amil_ ‘ _L_ _ómion’?”_

At that, gasps of disbelief and sounds of surprise broke out from some of the lords, and Galdor half rose from his seat, then sat again.

Another might have protested, _“Nay, aranya, I never did so! That is absurd. The child knew not what she spoke!”_ or, _“mayhap you misheard her!”_ But Ecthelion was as true and clear as the waters of his fountain. “Would you believe me if I tell you, _aranya?_ Or would you think me insane?”

“I have thought over this matter till I know not what to think. That is why I have assembled the Lords here. Speak, Fountain, that they may judge with me what the truth is.”

“You have known me since I was a youth, _aranya_ , and all my life I have served you. Have you ever had cause to doubt my veracity on any matter?”

“None. It is not _your_ _veracity_ I doubt, Ecthelion. It is the accuracy of your perception. Did we not earlier say that witchcraft might be at work?”

Ecthelion gravely regarded the consternation and bewilderment on the faces of his fellow lords, then looked at his king.

“Yes. I called her Lómion.” As the murmurs went around the room, he added, “For she is Lómion. Re-housed.”

And at that, exclamations of disbelief and astonishment rang out among the lords.

“But—that is preposterous!” protested Salgant.

“Indeed, Námo changes not the sex of _f_ _ëar_ when he re-houses them!” declared Egalmoth.

“Every man of us in this room, save Galdor, is testimony of that,” affirmed Rog.

“As is over half the population of Eldamar,” added Penlod.

“How this should be, I know not,” said Ecthelion in a level voice. “’Tis Námo you should question, not I.”

“You must be mistaken, Fountain.”

“You must have been misled and beguiled to believe such a thing.”

Ecthelion gazed at their faces, and refrained from asking why anyone in their right minds would bespell someone to believe such a thing.

So, he was either deranged, or a dupe. Very well. He would not exert himself to disprove it. If they would not believe him, all the better. He was waiting for someone to ask him about any strange mushrooms he might have ingested when the king’s deep voice cut through all the others: “Let us assume for the moment that what Ecthelion says is true.”

Turgon had assumed his place at the head of the table once more. “Why should Námo cause a _n_ _ér_ to return as a _n_ _ís_? And what would the return of this _nér_ as a _nís_ mean for us and our fair city?”

As this was something Ecthelion had pondered, he ventured a reply. “Mayhap it signals to one and all a clear break with the past and the misdeeds of the traitor’s first life. He is now most truly, in every way, one with a new identity, and should no longer be condemned for past crimes.”

“In which case we might expect the sons of Fëanáro to re-appear amongst us as _nissi_ some day,” remarked Duilin.

“Which might please Nerdanel. She always did want more daughters,” said Rog wryly.

Egalmoth, slain at the Havens of Sirion, shifted in his seat unamused, for he had no kind thoughts for the Fëanorians. He shook his head. “I still find it hard to believe that Námo would release the traitor.”

 _“Ná,”_ growled Galdor grimly. “No matter how many millennia he has spent in Mandos, that wretch does not deserve to breathe again.”

Ecthelion rose to his feet and gazed sternly at his fellow lords. “Did Lómion not receive punishment and execution for his crimes when Tuor cast him down Amon Gwareth? Moreover, do we not believe that every soul that emerges from Mandos has been cleansed, and every record of sin, no matter how heinous, wiped clean?”

“Not the records in the memories of the living,” said Galdor, his eyes shadowed with pain.

“Our memories fade not, but we may release forgiveness for the hurts suffered. Lómion has served his time in Mandos, and shown true remorse,” said Ecthelion. “Regardless of how grave those sins might have been, it has pleased Námo to release him from the halls of the dead, and are we to say Námo erred?”

“Indeed,” said Salgant in the heartfelt voice of one who had had to live under the shadow of his former cowardice, “How should any who breathes dare accuse one whom the Valar have justified?”

“Eru is perfect, but his Valar are not always so,” said Galdor, causing a murmur of protest to run around the room. “I question the judgement of Námo in this. How is the horror of a hundred thousand innocent deaths ever forgiven?” Galdor’s eyes were cold and hard. “I for one, would have the traitor thrust out into the _Avak_ _úma_ , the Outer Void, with Moringotto his master.”

Ecthelion’s silver eyes flashed. “I once judged the traitor as harshly as you do, but I now believe him profoundly changed, and not merely in body… he is humbler and more peaceable—a kinder, more benevolent version of himself. Certainly a happier one. I felt more than once during my visit that this was Lómion as he could have been—should have been—had the circumstances of his birth and the events of his life been less unfortunate.” He gave a quick account of Lómiel’s return to Ennor, and her life in Imladris and marriage to Glorfindel, and her years of service to the descendants of Turgon, and her friendship with them. “And there is more. None in the city have ever heard Lómion’s account of what happened in Angband and after. Hear it now.”

The tale of Maeglin’s capture and betrayal, and his return to the city held in thrall to Sauron, was related. Most of those seated at that table heard in it the ring of truth.

“We all noted the change,” said Egalmoth. “We all _sensed_ something amiss.”

“Yet how could we possibly have guessed the cause of it?” asked Duilin.

“A true friend would probed, and would have discovered the imposter,” said Ecthelion. “But Lómion had… no friends.”

“He had only himself to blame for that,” grunted Rog. “The snarky little bastard.”

“He admits that now, with rather disarming honesty,” said Ecthelion. “In one thing Lómion was truly culpable, and truly repentant. He gave away the secrets of Gondolin, and there are no words for the depth of remorse he feels for that. He would have given us warning thereafter, had he been able, but the Enemy had his tongue. To me, at least, that makes the extent of his wickedness much less than I had believed.”

“Or so he would claim,” said Galdor.

“I am convinced. I saw truth and clarity in eyes that hitherto had always been shrouded and secretive. And all he— _she,_ damn it!—and Laurefindil ask is to live a quiet and peaceful life in the woods south, far from Eldamar.”

“Or so he would have you think,” muttered Galdor.

Ecthelion regarded the Lord of the Tree with some compassion. Their comrade had seemed his old self when they met him after their terms in Mandos, but over the years they had glimpsed the shadow that lingered and lurked beneath the surface, and noted the rarity of his merry laugh. He was one of those who, proud and stubborn, had not gone to Estë’s gardens. Someone should _make_ him, thought Ecthelion, as Turgon waved to him to be seated and he sank back into his chair.

“If you doubt what Lord Ecthelion has said, Lord Galdor, what then do you believe?” asked Turgon.

The nightmares of the past week weighing on him, his heart gripped with foreboding, Galdor stood to address them.

“Accuse me of heresy if you will, but I say the Valar err again. We have seen it. Did they not let Moringotto walk freely in Eldamar, spreading dissent and hatching his evil schemes? Were they not unaware as he deceived both us and them, his brethren, with fair words and fair seeming? And now we are told that they have allowed one who moved smiling in our midst—a puppet of Sauron who sold our secrets and wrought our destruction—to return. Ecthelion would convince us that this is harmless. Yet if Manwë and Námo once erred most disastrously in releasing Moringotto, may they not have erred again? And worse, we now learn this traitor was possessed, body and soul, by _Sauron_ himself. What corruption of his master may yet remain in his being? Indeed, now I think of it—what assurance have we even that this is truly Lómion re-housed, and not simply his master? No other of the _quendi_ has _ever_ been rebodied in Endórë. Have we learned nothing from history? From across the sea we have heard the bitter tales of woe—the tragedies of Eregion. And Númenórë. Of how, by assuming fair guises, Sauron deceives and corrupts, and stirs the desires of men to destroy them. Is it not strange that Laurefindil, who for six millennia by all accounts cared naught for love, should suddenly upon the appearance of a mysterious _n_ _ís_ be inexplicably besotted? Is it not strange that the _n_ _ís_ should be a master smith? And is it not convenient that residence in the valley of Imladris should grant this dark _n_ _ís_ passage back to Aman itself?”

They listened in silence, frowns and uncertainty shadowing their fair faces. Ecthelion shook his head and rose to his feet once more. “This is absurd, Galdor. Lómiel was present in Imladris when the Ring sojourned there. Were this Sauron, do you not think he would have _acted_ before the Fellowship of the Ring was formed and set forth? And would the quest not have failed, Sauron being privy its plans?”

“Very true,” said Duilin. Several of the lords were nodding. The others looked thoughtful.

“Moreover, would Sauron not assume a much fairer form of light and goodness if he sought a disguise?” continued Ecthelion. “To adopt the identity of a reviled traitor is senseless. And why be a _n_ _ís_ and affect to be formerly a _n_ _ér?_ And a _n_ _ér,_ furthermore, that Laurefindil, the one he sought to seduce, would have every reason to hate? It is absurd.”

“We understand so little of how Sauron’s powers were affected by the loss of the ring and his defeat at its destruction,” replied Galdor. “Mayhap Sauron’s spirit had been so weakened that he could only take the form of one he has possessed before. Or, if we accept that this _n_ _ís_ is Lómion rehoused, Sauron may have sought out a past servant who would offer little resistance—or perhaps grant him easy access and even welcome. Did you not mention that in the Fourth Age of Endórë, this Lómiel travelled oft to Gondor and Ithilien? I have paid enough attention to the tales of returned exiles to know those lands are nigh Mordor. Could one rule out her becoming prey and vessel to the evil one’s wandering, houseless spirit?”

“If this is Sauron, he is remarkably lacking in ambition,” said Ecthelion. “He—damn it! _she_ — was content to while away a _y_ _én_ serving in a tiny forge and raising children. She now shuns the courts and society of Eldamar, and merely seeks a quiet life in the wilderness.”

“In the body of a traitor, he might have no alternative at present. This guise is a means, not an end. A next step might be to abandon this hated form, dissolve into the wilderness as a spirit, and there gather strength to assume a new and fairer shape.”

“Surely you cannot believe any _ainu_ could dwell in Aman, under the watchful eyes of Oromë and all his hunter-maia, no less, and go undetected.”

“The Valar have been blind and complacent before. They could be again.”

“I know Lómion! We spoke of the past, of events and encounters only he and I would be privy to!”

“You forget that you claim Sauron possessed Lómion. If so, all Lómion ever knew or thought or did would be known to him. You forget too, that perhaps Lómion might be a more than willing ally with Sauron.”

 “She has three children with Laurefindil! She is a loving wife and a devoted mother!”

“A maia may have children by a _n_ _ér_. It has been done. Affection is easy to counterfeit, and it is laughable to assert that motherhood is any assurance of integrity or good character! You seem to be extraordinarily bent on defending this _n_ _ís,_ Fountain _._ Mayhap you have succumbed to her spells and been bewitched as well.”

The Lord of the Fountain looked around the table despairingly, at the faces of his fellow lords who had been listening intently, and who now looked uncertainly and gravely at both Galdor and Ecthelion. The Fountain turned to Turgon in appeal. “ _Aranya…”_

 _“Aranya,”_ said Galdor grimly, “we were once complacent about the impregnability of our city. And none know more than the nine of us gathered here how bitter a price we paid for that. If there is any hint of danger—even the _slightest_ —should we not be on our guard? And take measures to ensure that all we love is safe?”

“I agree,” said Turgon, so smoothly that it was evident that his thoughts must have coincided more than a little with Galdor’s. “The first of those measures would be to keep a close watch on the young _n_ _ér_ who arrived in this city but a week past. Rauco, should you note anything suspicious in your new Sindarin apprentice’s behaviour, detain him and bring him hence for questioning.”

Rog frowned. “Aros? You think …?”

Ecthelion, baffled, was for the first time frowning as well. “What young _n_ _ér, aranya?_ ”

“You did say, did you not, Ecthelion, that Laurefindil and this _n_ _ís_ have _three_ children?” said Turgon. “I believe I may have had the pleasure of meeting one of them in our very city.”

Galdor uttered a curse. “Of course! The two young travellers from Tol Eressëa. Some sinister plot may be afoot.”

Turgon looked sharply at him. “Two?”

“He has a friend, who I wager is no friend but a brother. He serves Duilin now. If Aros is like unto you in face, _aranya_ , then Cúmaen resembles Laurefindil in both face and nature.”

Ecthelion’s heart sank. “Fair-haired young _n_ _éri?”_  

Galdor looked puzzled. “Nay. Aros is raven-tressed, Cúmaen brown.”

“Then it is not they! The sons of Laurefindil and Lómiel are fair-haired—one bright as the finest gold, one with pale silver-gold tresses. And they shun Eldamar. They would never dare venture here. At the time of my departure from their forest home, they were travelling the wildernesses further south.”

Galdor’s eyes narrowed. “Or so you might wish us to think, Fountain.”

Silver eyes flashing, Ecthelion glared at Galdor. “You would question my integrity and honesty, Tree?”

“You love Laurefindil as a son. And you have made it abundantly clear to us that you will do all within your power to protect and shield him and his _n_ _ís,_ whoever or whatever she may be.”

“I would not _lie_ to you. I would not _lie_ to my king!”

Turgon was grave-faced, and spoke dispassionately. “Your integrity, Ecthelion, has never before been in doubt. But Galdor is right. You have been in company that may have compromised you, mind and heart. We must be cautious. As cautious as we were not, when my nephew returned to our city millennia ago. A nephew in whom I had the most absolute faith and trust. You understand, Ecthelion?”

Ecthelion looked admirably composed. He inclined his head and bowed. “A wise precaution. Very well, my liege. What is to be done with me?”

Turgon reflected awhile. “Keep to your quarters for the present. Spacious and fair as they are, your confinement there will, I hope, pose no hardship. You may conduct all the business of your Houses thence. And one of the lords present here shall accompany you. ”

“Day and night?” He was to all intents and purposes a prisoner, thought Ecthelion.

“It would seem prudent. Yes.” Turgon sounded almost apologetic. “My lords, have a care that this matter stays within our circle of nine. Salgant, not a word to your lady wife. Pillar, accompany Ecthelion back to the House of the Fountain. Snow shall relieve you at dawn.”

Penlod rose with a bow. After the Pillar and the Fountain had left the room, Turgon looked at Duilin. “This friend, or brother, of the young smith—he is in your House now, Swallow? How did that come to be?”

“He won the Golden Arrow, _aranya._ ”

“Ah… How regrettable that the betrothal of my brother caused me to be absent from that event. I desire to meet with this archer, since I could not be present to bestow his trophy upon him. An audience is in order. Send him to me tomorrow morn.”

“He would be most honoured by your notice, _aranya._ I cannot believe, though, there is any danger in him. He is an open-hearted, gentle and merry soul, and has won over even his defeated rivals in the tournament.”

“I shall take warning from that,” said Turgon. “For I do believe Tyelperinquar was thoroughly charmed by Annatar before the deceiver tortured and peppered him with arrows.”

“And what of they who dwell south?” asked Galdor. “Shall we go forth with a force to take them?”

“Violence in Oromë’s lands? And take the one renowned for two ages as Endórë’s greatest warrior?” Turgon looked out of the window at his fair city, and the mountaintops that glistened with snow in the starlight. Beyond them, across the Calacirya, loomed the soaring white peak of Taniquetil. “No,” said Turgon, rising to his feet. “They lie far from us. Let a bird go forth to the Halls of Ilmarin telling of these discoveries, and let us see what the Elder King replies. We shall secure our kingdom first.”

As they filed out of the room after the king, none of the lords saw the four-legged white shadow that slipped silently out from under the sideboard.

 _“Well, what a to-do among these tall ones. And all this good food quite ignored._ ” The little cat’s fur had dried and her mood had much improved. She leapt up lightly onto the table, and was feasting on the abandoned quail on Ecthelion’s plate when the King’s chefs entered and raised a lament.

“ _Ai!_ What a waste! They barely ate a thing!” wailed one chef.

 “There you are, Ilimba, you pretty puss!” said another.

 “The roast! No one even touched the roast!”

“The roast can keep. But this steamed trout… barely a morsel taken. _Ai_ , what a tragedy.”

“We wondered when we saw you not below stairs,” cooed one over the cat, stroking it.

“We thought you had found romance for the night,” said another.

“Were the king and his lords so very amusing, Ilimba?”

“ _Oh, endlessly diverting_ ,” said the white cat, daintily licking a paw. “ _What a fuss! There was N_ _ámo sending a traitor back as a n_ _ís, and Sauron bespelling a Laurefindil and returning to Aman to live in the southlands—”_

The outcry that the chefs raised at that could almost have shocked the steamed trout back to life.

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Ilimba [Qenya] - milky

Laithron – from Gnomish “laithra” – dead and gone, forgotten

Maril [Q] – crystal

Ohtari [Q] - soldiers

Pen-gwain [S] – young one

Vinyamo [Q] – young one

 

* * *

_Sigh. I am so sorry. I meant to wrap up the story in this chapter, but it ballooned into a monster and this is only half of it. So I now think there’ll be one more chapter + epilogue. I used to be more economical as a writer, so I don’t see this as a good development—I’ve become so self-indulgent!_


	43. As the Falcon Flies

Turgon launched the falcon out onto the wind from the top of his tower, and watched it wing south swift and straight as an arrow into the night.

The Ainur had no use for _palant_ _íri_ , and Turgon wondered if any of the innumerable invisible maiar of the air might already have whisked the news to Manwë on his mountaintop. Were the situation dire, an Ainurin visitation would doubtless already have descended upon the King of Alcarinos in his tower. That alone rather reassured Turgon. He could wait upon the two hours it would take for the falcon to fly to Taniquetil, and the two hours thereafter it would take to return.

He descended the stone stairs to his bedchamber, and sat awhile watching Elenwë sleep. Simply looking at her with her golden hair shining upon her pillow, her lovely grey eyes full of peaceful dreams, never ceased to give him the most intense pleasure. His space on the bed next to her warm body beckoned to him, but he resisted it. His dreams for the past month had not been pleasant. Deciding he would wait for the falcon, he rose and walked down another flight of steps to his study.

Despite his disturbing fears and dreams for the past month, it was not thoughts of dark lords, nor treachery, nor wizardry that oppressed him as paced the length of his study. Strangely, it was the face of Maeglin after his mother and father’s deaths. And Ecthelion’s words echoing in his head.

_…what Lómion could have been… should have been… had the circumstances… and the events of his life been less unfortunate… a friend would have delved deeper and discovered the treachery… but Lómion had… no friends…_

Aredhel’s funeral. Why should Turgon recall that now? Idril had wept freely for her aunt, but uncle and nephew had stood side by side, dry-eyed and pale. When it was all over and the cold marble slab, with an echoing rumble, had sealed the tomb, Turgon had turned to his nephew—and recoiled inwardly from the abyss that yawned in the obsidian eyes. An abyss that held up a magnifying mirror to the pain of Turgon’s own losses… _my sweet Elenw_ _ë… little Arak_ _áno… and now_ _Íriss_ _ë… wild little_ _Íriss_ _ë…_

Turgon had felt for a moment something chilling and repellent about the boy— _like a snake eyeing its prey._ Then he had felt a pang of guilt, and seen only a boy lost and bereft.

 _Forgive me,_ _Íriss_ _ë, nésaya. Your son shall be honoured here._

_Look not at me thus, boy. I am barren of all comfort, and no salve for such grief have I. But all I have to give, you shall have._

His face as stony as that of the freshly-carved statue of his sister in the mausoleum, Turgon had stooped to drop a feather-light kiss on each of his nephew’s cheeks.

“Sister-son Lómion, beloved to us as our sister was beloved,” he had proclaimed before all the lords and nobility assembled, “Receive, by right of blood and kinship, your place in this kingdom. Second only to our person shall be your authority in this realm, and at the right hand of our throne shall you stand.” And to the assembly, the King had declared in his resonant voice, _“Ela! L_ _ómion, Cundu i Ondolindeva.”_

As the Gondolindrim had bowed in solemn silence, Maeglin had knelt and kissed his uncle’s hand. His lips and fingers had felt almost as cold and dead as his eyes.

Turgon had withdrawn his hand a little too quickly and ceremonially raised the boy to stand at his side. And as they walked in procession out of the mausoleum, the king had avoided looking at the prince again.

No, he had not liked his nephew. What could be said of a strange boy who seldom smiled save sardonically, who chose to wear naught but black, and who chose the Mole and a sable banner as his emblems? But he had been pleased with Maeglin’s quick mind and eagerness to learn and to work hard. And his efficient management of affairs within his own House and in the kingdom at large had inspired confidence in—and ultimately reliance on—his abilities.

Turgon had always believed he had done well by the boy, and that none could fault him for the generous favour he had poured out upon him. And all this he had done in spite of the lack of warmth Maeglin inspired in him. Or because of it.

And he had grown to trust Maeglin. Completely.

Now, six millennia later and on the other side of Mandos, Turgon had striven to think as little of his nephew as he could. The few thoughts he had, tended to be: _treacherous ingrate… villainy incarnate… viper nourished in my bosom._

Seating himself at his desk, Turgon absent-mindedly rearranged the books and papers upon it, and was disturbed to again see in his mind that bleak, bereft young face at the funeral. The abyss of obsidian eyes.

Strange that for the first time, Turgon should now feel a twinge of something that felt like regret, or remorse.

As an even stranger drowsiness fell upon him in his chair, Turgon was visited by a familiar nightmare.

_Howling wind and driving snow and his small daughter in his arms, her shrill child’s voice wildly escalating to hysteria in his ear._

_“Ammë’s not gone—Nooo!—Ammë’s not gone, Atto—not gone—not gone… No! Noo-ooo!”_

_His own tears frozen in his chest, strangling him in his throat, he could only hold his treasured child close, so close, and rock her…_

_But no. Suddenly, it was not Idril. It was Maeglin in his arms, black-clad and tense and awkward, black head against his chest._

_“Amm_ _ë’s... gone.” His low, flat voice, so hollow, so bleak, sounded far younger than his fifty years. “G_ _one.”_

_Turgon held his nephew close. Words caught in his throat, strangled him silent. He could only hold the youth close, so close, till the stiffness began to go out from his young body, till he began to shake, till a strangled, keening sound was torn from the boy’s throat, and the dam broke, and the flood of tears at last came…_

Turgon stared at cool silver moonlight flooding across his desk, illuminating rows of leather-bound books on his study wall.

He touched his face and was baffled to feel it wet with tears.

 

Their long hair brushed out, comfortably attired now in the silk tunics and leggings they had worn beneath their robes, the Lords of the Pillar and the Fountain fell silent as they sat facing each other over a game of _quiltyali_ _ë._

Ecthelion and Penlod had exchanged a meaningless stream of casual chatter as the servants divested them of their flowing garments and jewels, undid their braids, and brushed their hair _... latest play at the great amphitheatre of Tirion… music festival at Alqualond_ _ë… Argon betrothed… broke heart of Galdor’s daughter… new garden extension for the Golden Flower… a petition to outlaw cats from fishing in the central fountain…_

Both lords had breathed sighs of relief once the servants of the Fountain had departed with armloads of lordly robes and jewels. They could hear singing and music from the square outside.

As the Fountain stared wearily at the white and blue onyx _quiltyali_ _ë_ stones scattered across the grid on the wooden board, he slowly wove his raven hair into one long, loose braid. The Pillar had left his silver hair unbound and it flowed like moonlight over his shoulders. He sat deep in thought toying with his small, white onyx stones. Neither made any pretence to be interested in the game. It was just for show. They nodded and spoke courteously to a maid who entered with wine and sweetmeats.

Once the door closed behind the maid, the Pillar said softly, “Ecthelion… I believe Galdor’s fears are much overblown.” He placed a white stone on the board without much thought for strategy. “And I very much doubt that there is danger to us here in Aman, or that Sauron is returned in any form. The Powers have grown wise regarding the nature and strategies of Moringotto and Sauron. They would not be taken unawares again.”

“It would have helped much had you opened your mouth to tell the king so,” the Fountain said curtly, pouring wine for them both.

“I have just arrived at my conclusion. I needed time to think. Besides, you know that look on Turukáno’s face as well as I do. He had made up his mind. Let him enquire of Manwë and talk to the young strangers to set his mind at rest. He will heed the Elder King. And I will have a word with him come morning if need be. Fear not, all shall be well.”

Ecthelion nodded, but still looked downcast.

“But _ai!_ Laurefindil wed to Lómion!” Penlod made a face and shook his head. He chose a sweetmeat from the dish and nibbled it. “It will be long ere I come to terms with that.”

“I know, Pillar. I know.” Ecthelion emptied his wine cup.

 _“You_ seem to have, though. Come to terms with it.”

And Ecthelion was surprised to realize it. “Yes… I have.” He carefully placed a blue stone on the game board. “Lauro is happy. That is what matters to me.”

“When was Laurefindil ever _not_ happy? He was our sunlit child of joy and song and laughter. The gallant Golden Flower could have had any one of thousands of exquisitely fair, virtuous maidens who utterly worshipped him, and who even now cherish hopeful dreams of his return. And he would not have needed to sever ties with his people and hide away from Eldamar. He got the worse end of the staff in this marriage, if you ask me.”

Ecthelion recalled a quiet morning outside the forest house. Sunlight sparkling on the lake water. Alassë sitting on the Fountain’s lap, frowning in concentration as she tried to dismantle his flute. The Mole and the Flower washing clothes side-by-side in the lake shallows, sleeves and breeches rolled up.

Ecthelion had caught a moment between the couple as they had held the opposite ends of a large bedspread and squeezed water from it. Obsidian and azure eyes had met briefly in a gaze as intimate as a caress, and they had exchanged a private smile. And for that moment, across Maeglin’s usually impassive face had flashed an expression that mirrored Glorfindel’s—a look of such melting tenderness and unabashed devotion that Ecthelion had been both astonished and embarrassed. Even more embarrassed, strangely, than by the conversation he had eavesdropped on from the rooftop.

But Ecthelion knew better than to say anything of that to Penlod. He sighed and swept the stones off the _quiltyali_ _ë_ board. “ _Ai_. It’s no good, Pillar. Let us give it up.”

“Lie down and get some rest, Fountain,” said Penlod, sorting the white and blue stones into two clay jars. “I’ll read a book.”

Outside the window, fireworks blossomed across the sky.

 

Arman was in a happy daze as he walked next to Nárriel to the House of the Tree, a soundly sleeping elfling in his arms. The retriever Titto ran ahead of them, turning back now and then to check that he had not lost his elves. Nárriel’s step was light as it had not been for a week, and Arman delighted to see a smile on her face. She hummed a snatch of dance music. Titto had paused to sniff and wag his tail at a small postern gate. Nárriel pushed it open, and as the dog ran in, she turned to look at Arman, her glittering emerald eyes gazing into his azure ones.

 _“Hantanyet,”_ she murmured, using the familiar address with him for the first time. Stepping forward, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, then took the child from his arms. _“Harya m_ _ára lom_ _ë_ ,” she whispered in parting. “May your night be good.”

“ _Harya m_ _ára lom_ _ë_ , Nárriel,” he said softly. But as she closed the door, he murmured, _“Nam_ _ári_ _ë.”_

As he walked away, Arman was torn between joy and anguish.

 _“Who would marry the sons of a traitor?”_ Aryo had once said in bitterness of heart. _“I could not marry anyone, and keep such a secret from her."_

 _"I would like to think anyone I love enough to marry would be trustworthy enough to keep my secrets!"_ Arman had replied.

How easily the words had come from one who had known naught of love. Now… the thought of confessing his parentage to Nárriel, and seeing the horror in her face… The thought that even if she did not loathe him for it, if she ever returned his love she would for all time have to bear this burden of secret shame, perhaps be parted from her home and family. _She has been hurt by love already. Would you hurt her more?_

And Arman felt an unutterable weight upon his heart as he returned to the House of the Swallow.

He could never love anyone.

He would go to Aryo tomorrow, and tell him he was right.

They should leave.

They should never have come here.

 

Having tucked a sleepy Almion in his bed, Nárriel felt the need to think. Once again slipping out the great arched entrance of her House, she ran on light feet to the House of the Golden Flower.

She could not put from her mind the sorrow and sweetness in Arman’s eyes, the way he had wistfully uttered _Nam_ _ári_ _ë_ as she shut the postern door. Fearing to give in to an impulse to seize him and kiss him on his lips, she had continued to shut the door. _What folly! You know naught of him, this youth with the face of a maia and a multitude of secrets. But ai! How one could drown in that smile and in those blue eyes…_

_And just a few hours ago had your thoughts not been entirely of another? How fickle and foolish could you be?_

As she walked surrounded by moonlit flowers, she thought of how the open adoration with which she had always gazed at Argon now shone at her from another’s eyes. Her angry, wounded heart recollected the laughing, careless charm of an amazingly tall, feckless Nolofinwion and the ardour of his kisses. _But never, not once, did Arak_ _áno look at me as this boy does. What did I ever know of him? What does this boy know of me? Nothing. It cannot be love. And I know naught of him in turn—him and his lies and his secrets. And yet… were he now to disappear, were I never to see him again, and never to know who he really is…_

The mere thought caused tears to sting her eyes, and through them she saw Rasco step into her path ahead and stand there, his demeanour dour.

“What is this madness, Narë?” Rasco demanded angrily. “Has there not already been enough talk? Do you relish scandalizing the city?”

“I mislike that tone, Rasco! You are not my father.”

“I care enough as your friend to speak thus! It is all over the city. _Five_ dances? _—”_

“—May I not dance? Have I not wept enough? This from _you_ , you who told me he was not worth my tears!”

“So, is this revenge? You desire, then, that it be carried across the city, and down to him in Tol Eressëa, that Nárriel the Jilted smiled and twirled through _five_ dances in the arms of a _n_ _ér?”_

Did that sting because there was truth in it? _And not just any n_ _ér. A beautiful n_ _ér_. Oh, Nárriel had not been blind to the envious glances of many other maidens, though Arman had seemed so captivated by her that he had no eyes for any other maid. “I danced with Cúmaen,” she snapped, “because he is a sweet companion and a fine dancer and it gave me pleasure. I am done with grief and regret. I am young and I want to enjoy life again.”

“It is too soon, Narë! Too soon! Eight days ago you were madly in love and dreaming of marriage. Seven days ago your heart was broken. You need time, time to heal. I know you—have not we two been companions since we first learned to walk? Your passions run deep. Your love, thwarted, seeks an outlet, and directs itself to another. I beg you, let it not be another who will hurt you again! Be not deceived by fair face and winsome smile. He is a liar and false to the core. I shall prove it yet.”

Her eyes flashed. “Yes, he lied! And he has confessed it to me! But looking into his eyes, I know, in spite of all, that his heart is true.”

Rasco’ grey eyes were keen and eager. “Confessed? What said he?”

“He has trusted me with his confidence, and I shall not betray that. But this I know: never will he lie to _me._ ”

The grey eyes smouldered with anger. “Then you are as great a fool as they say, and have learned naught.”

She slapped him hard across the face for that. Then her temper cooled as quickly as it had flared.

“Rasco… forgive me.”

“I bid you a good night, Nárriel,” said the son of the Hammer stiffly. And he strode away, leaving her staring at a statue of the Lord of the Golden Flower.

And wondering why the marble smile that she had seen hundreds of times before, now reminded her of a honey-haired youth.

 

Any public interest in Nárriel’s dancing with a young stranger was soon supplanted by other rumours. If gossip spreads in genteel whispers, this news roared like wildfire through the streets and squares and gardens. It disrupted the dance circles in the streets, burst into solars and studies, kitchens and stables, dining halls and _yuldacari_ across the city.

Not two hours after the Lord of the Fountain had retired to his bedchamber, and just after he had finally fallen asleep, he was shaken awake by Nossarto. He almost leapt out of bed as he had never before in this second life.

_“My sword! Bring me my sword!”_

_“Shh… shh… Herunya,_ the king and his lords are here,” Nossarto said soothingly.

“All of them?” asked Ecthelion, frowning and rubbing his throbbing temples as he sat up in bed.

Not all. Tying the sash of his nightrobe, Ecthelion left his bedchamber to find Harp pacing about the solar in some agitation, twins Pillar and Snow conferring together, and the King awaiting him at the centre of the room, arms folded and with a face like thunder.

Through the window came the voices of a people in tumult, and over it, the Lord of the Hammer bellowing reassurances that the city was safe.

“A tongue among us has been loose,” snapped the King. “The city is in an uproar! It has been spread abroad that Sauron and the traitor have returned, that they have bewitched Laurefindil, that an assault is planned, and that their spies are among us in the city.”

“Whose tongue has been loose?” asked Ecthelion, appalled.

“None among the rest of us. Did you speak to anyone else upon your return?”

“No one.” Ecthelion could not help himself—he glanced at Salgant.

“I resent that look, Fountain!” burst out the Harp indignantly. “I uttered not a word to anyone, not even my beloved Híselótë!”

“Most likely servants or chefs listened at the door _, aranya_ ,” said Penlos.

“Well, the damage has been done,” said Penlod.

“Proclamations to refute this have been issued?” asked Ecthelion.

“Rog, Duilin, Galdor and Egalmoth have gone to different sectors of the city to restore calm. I myself shall address them soon to allay their fears,” said Turgon, surveying the King’s Square from the window. “But first, there is another matter.” The King turned and fixed a baleful eye upon Ecthelion. “Another rumour spreads. Harp?”

Salgant stepped forward and cleared his throat. “A most shocking rumour indeed did I hear in the Square—that Laurefindil is the son of Crown Prince Findaráto, begotten by him in Beleriand.”

Ecthelion was stunned. Such a rumour would make the prince’s present marriage to Amárië a sham, and the noblest of princes a bigamist. That was another rare word brought back from the Hither Lands, used to refer to the shocking social practice among some mortal tribes—chiefly the Easterlings and their ilk. “I have said _nothing_ of the sort to anyone!”

“It is too much of a coincidence, Fountain. You return, and these scandals erupt,” pointed out Salgant. “So you would assert that there is no truth to the rumour? You have not heard of such a thing?”

Turgon, arms folded, was regarding the Fountain rather grimly.

This was not a secret Glorfindel had given Ecthelion permission to disclose, the honour of Finrod and the House of the Noldóran being at stake. So the Lord of the Fountain rather desperately equivocated. “If Prince Findaráto who loves our King dearer than a brother has said naught of this matter to him, how could it possibly be true? And how could it be so, when it is well known that Findaráto, noblest and most faithful of princes, was not in Beleriand wedded to any, but remained true to his beloved Amárië?”

The King probably saw right through this. A regal eyebrow lifted slightly, but he held his tongue even as Salgant went on to ask, “But then whence could this rumour have arisen?”

“I swear I am not the source. I said not a word to any as I rode in, and went straight from the stables to my chambers—” And that was when it struck Ecthelion. He groaned and covered his face with his hand. “Lossendol.”

They all stared at him dumbstruck. “Your _horse?”_

“Why would your horse say such a thing?”

Ecthelion hesitated. “Prince Findaráto visited Laurefindil whilst I was there.”

“You saw my cousin Prince Findaráto?” Turgon said sharply.

“Yes. Princess Amárië was with him. They both seemed very fond of Laurefindil and Lómiel. They stayed one night, then left.” Which was true. No need to mention that they had helped to build the lakeside house, and indeed had a bedchamber reserved for their use whenever they visited. “Prince Findaráto loves to travel with his princess,” Ecthelion added, as though all present did not know it. The emphasis on Amárië was key. Her presence would help dissipate any suspicions of Glorfindel being Finrod’s son by another. Any wife meeting a child of her beloved would _know_ at once—and what wife would condone such a thing so sweetly?

That seemed to have the desired effect.

“Now we know where the Crown Prince and Princess have been,” said Penlod.

Penlos smiled. “And much is explained. That horse of Ecthelion’s cannot think further than his next meal of oats.”

“A natural confusion for Lossendol if he saw them together, Laurefindil and the prince both being golden-haired,” remarked Penlod.

“True. Do you remember how Lossendol mistook Elwë Sindicollo for _our_ father, when he and Melyanna visited a _y_ _én_ back?” added Penlos wryly.

Insulted as he might be on behalf of his steed, Ecthelion loved the silver-haired twins at that moment.

“I shall have a stern word with Lossendol for gossiping in the stables,” said Ecthelion.

“Gather the people in the Square. I shall address them,” said Turgon, striding out of the room with the Lords of the Harp and Snow in his wake.

As the King climbed the steps rising from the Square to his palace, he said to Rog and Duilin “The two alleged sons of the traitor will have heard the rumours. Do not let them leave the city. Find them. Bring them to me.”

Then Turgon’s strong, resonant voice carried over the Square. _It would appear the traitor has indeed returned from Mandos… yes, as a n_ _ís… and yes, it would seem to be true that she has wed Laurefindil of the Golden Flower…_

A lament rose from many fair ones, some of whom burst into tears, and a murmur of horror swept the crowd.

... _it may be true that the traitor returned from Angband and walked in our midst possessed by Sauron. But Sauron was defeated in End_ _ór_ _ë and no evidence exists for his return… no danger to our city is evident at this time... a message has been sent to the Elder King upon Taniquetil… nor is there any evidence that the Crown Prince took wife in Beleriand… slander against his noble name shall not be countenanced…_

There was widespread laughter when they heard about the horse, and the mood lifted just a notch. With a goodly measure of calm restored by his voice and words, the King ended his address. Dismissed, the people still murmured among themselves. They milled about the Square and the streets, and with the mood for song and dance largely dissipated, many gravitated to tables where food and drink were served, and discussed the news as they ate and drank.

Now for the horse. Turgon went alone to the horses’ quarters of the House of the Fountain, and found Lossendol in the large paddock which the stalls of the stables faced. The stallion was overawed by the king, and pawed the earth of the paddock nervously with his front left hoof. He had been rather strongly reprimanded by Ecthelion, who had snuck down whilst the attention of all was focused on the King’s address in the Square.

_Oh, I am so sorry for the trouble, aranya… Laurefindil is Ecthelion’s foal, isn’t he?… but I thought Findaráto and Laurefindil look so PRETTY together… you know, those golden manes… why, they LOOK so much more like father and foal… don’t they?... and Findaráto said I had a beautiful white mane…_

And Lossendol shook his white mane at Turgon with a toss of his head.

Nothing more could be gotten out of the stallion.

Retiring to his palace, Turgon ascended his tower to await either his falcon, or the sons of the hero and traitor.

His thoughts went back two millennia past, to the time he had emerged from the Halls of Mandos. As he had accustomed himself to his new body and resided at Elenwë’s home at Valmar, his cousins Finrod and Angrod had been among the first to visit from Tirion, even before any of the Gondolindrim made their way to pay their respects.

Apart from their golden hair, Turgon had always thought these two sons of Finarfin had little in common. Finrod wore the title of Crown Prince with an easy grace and gentle humour. Angrod was always more aloof. His grey eyes had a touch of iron in them, even in this second life. His mouth had determined set to it, and his manner of speaking tended to be emphatic and forceful. Aegnor’s remaining in Mandos had been hardest on him. They were Iron and Fire, the middle children of Finarfin, born but twenty-two years apart from each other and inseparable most of their lives. Although the two brothers had bickered and traded insults frequently, they adored each other.

“A few of your lords reside on Tol Eressëa now,” Finrod had said to Turgon, after they had talked of many other things. “Has Itarillë told you?”

“Duilin and Galdor, she tells me,” Turgon had replied. Messenger birds had flown swiftly between Valmar and Tol Eressëa, and even now Idril was riding towards Taniquetil. “And she informs me that Laurefindil has been sent back to Endórë.”

“Oh, the _valarauco_ slayer killed by his hair?” Angrod had said, cracking a nut, and not noticing how his brother suddenly sat very still. “I’ve heard interesting rumours about that one. Itarillë found him on your palace doorstep as a baby, did she not?”

“Which strikes me as odd,” Finrod had said intently, “for surely your guards were remiss in their duty, if they espied not who left the child there.”

“That was but the tale Itarillë spun for a child to hear,” Turgon had said. “And when the balladeers took it up, we let it be.”

“So… what is the true story?” Finrod had asked, his grey eyes eager and curious.

“Only your sister knows.”

And Turgon had told them of the secret meeting with Galadriel on the edge of the Woods of Núath—and the golden-haired infant, but a month out of the womb, that she had placed in his arms, and the heirloom brooch she had pinned on swaddling clothes woven in Tirion.

Finrod had fallen very quiet.

Angrod’s brow had furrowed as he chewed on a walnut. “I know that brooch. It belonged to our grandmother Indis. I was present when she gave it to Artanis.”

Then, thunderstruck, the third son of Finarfin had turned to gaze at his eldest brother. The nutcracker had fallen from his hand upon the table with a clunk. “Mountain of Manwë! Ingo… could it be…?”

On the fair, luminous face of Finrod the Faithful, as he returned his brother’s gaze, had been a strange mix of apprehension and expectancy.

Angrod had arisen abruptly and paced about in agitation, then swung round to look at Finrod, though he seemed to be thinking aloud more than addressing his brother. “I did not think it possible—Holy Eru!—Could it be? I cannot believe it! What would _Amil_ and _Atar_ say?”

Finrod cleared his throat. “Let me—”

“You see it too, do you not? That rogue brother of ours! I _knew_ he could be feckless, but _ne’er_ did I think him capable of siring and hiding a child from us. If ever he emerges from Mandos, I’ll _tan_ his hide if this be true!”

Finrod’s eyes had widened.

Turgon had leaned back in his seat looking curiously complacent. “So you believe… Aikanáro married rashly, then regretted it, and kept it secret?”

“What possible reason would you have to believe that the babe was Aikanáro’s?” asked the eldest son of Finarfin.

“How many golden-haired _quendi_ were there in Beleriand in the First Age? This babe was born whilst Turno was at Nevrast. Remember how roaring drunk Aiko was at the Mereth Aderthad—and how, once he sobered, he had _no_ recollection of romancing that Sindarin chieftain’s daughter?”

“It takes far more than kissing to make a babe,” Finrod murmured, blushing slightly.

“They went a bit further than kissing, if I recall. But not far enough to be wed and make babes. And the Mereth Aderthad was decades before Laurefindil was begotten,” Turgon pointed out.

“When was the boy begotten?” demanded Angrod.

“The fifty-first Year of the Sun, in _y_ _ávi_ _ë,”_ said Turgon.

Angrod stifled a curse. “Aikanáro had another liaison, right about then. Another lissom Sinda of a hill tribe in northern Dorthonion. Claimed he had plighted his troth to wed her, but he protested he had no mind to marry any. We had a time of it placating the tribe, who were our allies. And now I learn that a _year_ later Artanis arranged to dispose of a mysterious baby. With golden hair. A child who _certainly_ cannot be her own, nor mine, nor _yours_ —”

“Angaráto—” Finrod had begun, with a sigh.

“—and Artaresto was already wed, with Finduilas on the way, so it could not have been _him,_ or I might have suspected that spineless sod. So _who else_ but Aiko? He would not be the first to wed rashly and sire a child after a drink too many, and awaken to his folly and a wife he could not love, and thereafter seek to hush the marriage. Were he in Valinor he would have sought an annulment. Sweet Varda! It would explain how intensely tormented he was over his love for Andreth—not merely that she was mortal, but that he knew himself wed and not free to marry another. No, no, no, this is madness! He could _not_ have been such a selfish turd as to send his own flesh and blood away. He was feckless and wild, those early years in Beleriand, but his heart was always _noble._ And he loved children as much as the rest of us.”

“No father would send a babe of his away if he knew he had a babe,” Finrod had said feelingly. “But what if he was… rendered insensible during the event, and hence ignorant of the begetting?”

Angrod had snorted with derision at his childless brother’s words. “Ignorant of the begetting! _Impossible._ No matter how drunk or insensible he might be, no _n_ _ér_ could _not know_ he has begotten a child, except he be an _utter idiot._ As a father, I can assure you of that. Am I not right, Turno?”

“Quite so,” Turgon had agreed. “Any _quend_ _ë_ would _know_. A child one sires is sensed within, is _part_ of one’s _f_ _ëa_.”

“Well, I hope I am wrong about Aiko.” Angrod had sat down again and shaken his head. “I love him dearly, and he did settle and grow wise and capable, those years in Ard-galen. We were so _close_. Had he married quietly, sired a child, then decided to part ways with his wife and send away the child to save face for them both, would he not have turned to me rather than Artanis for help?”

“I doubt that, Ango,” Turgon said drily, “given your inclination to call him an utter idiot and tan his hide.”

“—well, Artanis would have surely done worse. Fearless warrior that he was _, she_ could make him nervous as no one else could. He would have turned to you, probably, Ingo, had you not been off wandering the wilderness. Damn… I should think he would _at least_ have confessed this to me _sometime_ during those years in Ard-galen.” Angrod took a deep breath. “So… the father may not be he. I desire with all my heart to believe he could never have been so selfish, so feckless.”

“I know he could not have been,” Finrod had said quietly. “I know there is another explanation—”

“We may never know it, if Artanis never returns.” Angrod had looked grim. “Let the mystery be. And let us forget I ever spoke of it. Not a word. For the scandal it would bring upon _Atar_ and our House, and the sorrow it would bring to _Amm_ _ë_ —”

“Scandal from this child? _Atto_ and _Amm_ _ë_ would rejoice to know they have another grandchild. They would love him all the more, knowing how unjustly he was sent away and hidden, even were he not a hero renown for such valour and virtue.”

“They would, Ingo. The scandal and the grief would be the abominable behaviour of their youngest son.”

“They would have a right to know. And we know their loving hearts. Were there any wrongdoing on the part of any child of theirs, they would bring correction, but they would also be forgiving.”

“Perhaps. But the scandal! Scandals are dangerous poison to a king. And there is no way to prove or disprove this.”

“What if I—” Finrod had begun.

“—Nay, Ingo! Not a word more of this _valarauco_ slayer and his birth,” Angrod said with finality. “And not a word to any. Especially not to _Atar_ and _Amil._ I _never_ spoke of this.”

“Never,” Turgon had affirmed with a nod. “Well, I shall be visiting my father soon. And I hear my grandson is now a star…?”

From that encounter, Turgon’s recollection, as he paced the large chamber at the top of his tower, went back almost seven thousand years, to the moment he had seen Glorfindel as a babe in Galadriel’s arms, under the eaves of the Woods of Núath.

That first instant he had laid eyes on the babe had brought a flash of recognition. Though baffled and bewildered, he had _felt_ it—that this child was the flesh and blood of his cousin and best friend and soul-brother. The name _Laurefind_ _ë_ he had bestowed upon the child in that moment had sprung from that moment of insight.

But over the years, watching the child grow into a youth, Turgon’s rational mind had contended with his instincts. The thought that Finrod could have secretly fathered a child and sent him away violated all Turgon had ever known of this beloved cousin he had grown up with, and who was in many ways closer to him than even his own siblings. Finrod’s honour, his open nature, his love of children and intense desire for his own, could not be reconciled with his sending a son of his away as a babe, unless there was some terrible peril the child needed protection from. But those had not been the dark days as when Fingon had sent Ereinion to Círdan. No grave danger had threatened, those early years in Beleriand; they had freely explored the Hither Lands, found them good, claimed territories of their own, and imagined the Siege of Angband might soon end. And who was the mother? Finrod had never gotten drunk in his life. And his love for Amárië made marriage to any other unthinkable.

And if Finrod had for any reason married someone else in Beleriand, what did that make him now he and Amárië were married in Aman? And would Amárië not have sensed at once in her _f_ _ëa_ that her beloved was wed to another?

So it was the differences Turgon began to note as Glorfindel came of age. The youth had Finrod’s warm laugh and beautiful voice, and his noble, unassuming, generous nature, but he did not have Finrod’s scholarly tastes, nor his aptitude for magic, nor his harp-playing skill, nor his artistic talents with painting or sculpting. Instead, the child took to the sword as though he had been born to it. Given his fearless daring and his playful and impulsive nature, Turgon’s suspicions as to his sire had eventually settled on… Aegnor.

Just as Angrod’s had.

Who knew Aegnor better than Angrod? That he could suspect his own younger brother of fathering Glorfindel was to Turgon confirmation enow.

But now… all because of a rumour spread by a silly horse, which surely should be given no credence whatsoever, Turgon found himself going over the details of that meeting with Angrod and Finrod again.

And now, he recalled how silent and preoccupied Finrod had looked after that. How several times over the years, Finrod had seemed to be on the brink of speaking something to Turgon… but had always drawn back.

And troubled in spirit, Turgon wondered if his first instinct about infant Glorfindel had been right after all.

 

To this, the highest peak in Arda, a million voices flow each minute.

Some of these are spirit-whispers from the far lands. Some are borne by thousands of maiar who move ceaselessly on the winds. Some arrive on tiny wings from every corner of Aman.

The halls of Ilmaren soar heavenwards in icy, glittering spires, crowning the highest peak of Arda. Hewn of stone and ice, whirled about with freezing winds and blizzards as cold as ever the Helcaraxë was, no life should there endure. And yet… on the slopes outside Ilmaren grow silvery grasses that shimmer in the moonlight and dazzle in the sunlight. White snow-roses glisten pure on these heights, and gracefully sway on slender stems amid a shrieking wind that should shred them like knives, but does not.

Most unexpected of all are the swift little maiarin winds that weave through the howling blizzards. Warm as milk, soft as down, these balmy breezes catch and cradle each bird that ascends these treacherous slopes, and waft them in a heartbeat to the very throne of the Elder King, unhurt by frost or cold.

The falcon rested on Manwë’s great shoulder, and in small squawks and chirrups delivered its tale.

Manwë inclined his head attentively, his hair brighter than Tilion’s light high in the sky above. “Say first to Turukáno: is silver that has passed through the refiner’s flame not pure enough? What dross survives the silversmith’s crucible? Then say: the Shadow beyond the sea is long scattered on the winds, and beyond the sea it shall remain. Not veil nor form may it assume again, not till the Final Strife.”

After the falcon had departed, the Elder King said serenely, “Now let us observe how these events unfold.”

Other whispers came then on the wind of which the falcon had known naught.

One maia at Manwë’s elbow asked, “Lord, think you chaos and fear will spread like wildfire among the children, even to the other cities?”

“It may,” said the Elder King. “For it is in their nature for their tongues and fancies and fears to run wild. Yet I would hope that the ages have tempered at least some of their number with wisdom and discernment.”

“And what would signal that we should intervene, Lord?” asked another maia at his feet.

“Intervene?” replied Manwë, lifting snowy eyebrows. His ancient eyes flashed like lightning, and his ageless face smiled. “Ah, but we already have.”

 

It was now three hours since the King’s supper with his lords had ended, and not all in the city had heard the scandalous news making their rounds. Yet.

High on the rooftop of the House of the Heavenly Arch, the Pyromaster of Alcarinos was lost in his own world of magical light and flame, and continued to send up wondrous works of blossoms and butterflies, lions and eagles, ships and castles into the air.

Far below, in the vast complex of smithies and craft workshops in the House of the Hammer, more than a few smiths and craftsmen remained engrossed in their labours. And one of them, mindful that he was supposed not to sit or stand too long, decided it was time to stretch his legs. He would get some fresh air, he thought, and head to the courtyard.

Out of politeness, as Aryo headed to the door, he called to the other smith who had once been a Mole, “Friend, I shall take a break. Perhaps a drink. Care you to join me?”

To his astonishment, the once-Mole smith gave a nod. It must be easier to face the Gondolindrim with a companion at your side, Aryo guessed. And surely as a newcomer he must be curious to see the city as well. Well, Aryo decided, he would buy a flagon of wine with the little coin he had, and he and the once-Mole could find a quiet corner of a garden, and watch fireworks, and talk.

They walked down long, wide corridors through the large complex, and at last came to the heavy door. The moment Aryo pushed it open and stepped into the moonlit courtyard, he felt a change in the atmosphere.

Just a few hours ago, a sense of lightness and gaiety had permeated the city, and the music of Meren Calameneldë had filled the air. Now, he saw small groups standing in huddles, murmuring, and the music had fallen silent. Only the fireworks still lighting the sky above gave some festive cheer. Nearest to him was a group of five—three smiths still wearing their work aprons, sleeves of their tunics folded up, and two _neri_ in colourful silk robes who must have come from the festivities. As he overheard what they were saying in Quenya, Aryo froze in shock.

“…one thing is certain, the traitor has a fetish for golden hair.”

“Hah! The Mole _hated_ the Golden Flower. It was well known!”

“Well, no better revenge than this, eh? He’s the Mole’s bitch now.”

“I hear he or she bewitched the Fountain as well.”

“No! Never our pure Fountain!”

“Oh yes. He would tolerate no ill spoken of her, it seems.”

Signs against evil were sketched in the air, a superstitious First Age custom started by some in Gondolin, hardly witnessed in Aman these days, and quite alien to the youngster from Ennor.

“These black spells are potent. Witness the fate of the White Lady.”

“Let Laurefindil beware! He, too, might come to a bad end.”

“ _N_ _á._ That Mole was always a nasty piece of work.”

“Cold as ice, and cunning as a wolf.”

“The king should have shoved him off the Caragdur with his _Atar.”_

“The Valar should shove the evil whore back into Mandos right now—”

The powerfully-built smith of the Hammer who spoke that last sentence broke off abruptly as he was yanked backwards by his long, dark braid of hair, spun about by his shoulder, and caught a flash of golden fire in angry grey eyes before a lightning-fast jab, cross and hook to his face downed him.

As two elves tended to the smith who lay on the flagstones with a bloodied and bruised face, the other two attempted to hold his attacker off. These were men of the Hammer, skilled warriors who had boldly stood against firedrakes and decimated swarms of _yrch_ ere they fell defending Gondolin. The young smith side-stepped their lunges and skilfully used the momentum of their attack to toss them aside with careless ease. One landed in a flower bed, the other in a pond. Eneldur cried out, “Stop it! Stop! Let’s go!” and pulled Aryo back through the door, and latched it.

“They will get through the door soon enough,” said Eneldur, grabbing Aryo’s hand and racing with him back down the corridor. “We must seek another way out.”

And Aryo, still in his fighting daze, realized Eneldur was speaking in Quenya to him. Corridors. Stairs. A verandah. More stairs. More corridors. Then, seeing people ahead of them, a climb onto a parapet. Rooftop. Onto the rooftop of the next building.

At last, Eneldur ducked into a shadowy corner where the roof formed a valley with a gable, and where they would be hidden from eyes watching from other buildings or the street. Aryo huddled there, blood pounding in his head. His back was throbbing with pain.

Eneldur gripped and shook him by the shoulders, speaking in a terse, hushed voice. _“What were they saying?_ Tell me—what was it they were saying, about the Mole, and the Golden Flower, about the Fountain, and spells, and being sent back to Mandos? _What did it all mean?”_

Aryo shook his head, still in shock, dazed with rage at himself. _You fool! You wretched fool!_ He had not lost control that way for over a century, and the memory of the smith’s bloody face was making him ill. _I think I broke his nose._ It was all over, now. He needed to get hold of Arman. They had to leave. At once.

 _“Why did you hit Beldo?_ You understood him. Damn it! You understand Quenya. I know you do. _Tell me!”_

Aryo swallowed, and replied at last in Quenya, “He insulted my _Amil.”_

“Your _Amil?_ ” said Eneldur. “ _Who is she?_ Please—why did they insult her so coarsely? I must know.”

“You won’t believe it…” said Aryo, feeling shame on behalf of his _Amil_ , knowing well her pride, and wishing to preserve it before one of her ardently loyal men, who had known her only as a strong lord. “If I tell you, you won’t believe me.” But even as Aryo looked into the other’s face, he could see that Eneldur was guessing _something,_ only unable or unwilling to accept it.

“The Lord,” said Eneldur, “has the Lord returned? Lord Lómion?”

“ _N_ _á_ ,” said Aryo reluctantly. “Only… he isn’t… really… himself anymore.”

Eneldur stared, stunned, into Aryo’s face. “I was thinking from the moment I saw you… you look so much like him. Like the King too. Are you the blood of Nolofinwë?”

“ _N_ _á_.”

“The Lord… you are… his son?”

“ _N_ _á_.”

“The Lord… he is… your…”

Aryo nodded slowly, urging him on with his silence.

“…your… _Amil?_ ” Eneldur whispered it.

 _“N_ _á_.” Aryo nodded again. He felt strangely apologetic. “I am sorry.” _For your shock, your disappointment, perhaps your horror._

Then they fell silent, hearing voices float up from one of the verandahs of the building beneath them.

“…possessed by Sauron himself.”

“So he was a puppet, then, and could give no warning.”

“Puppet! Hah! A willing accomplice I bet you he was, that orc-blooded monster. None can be possessed save he who of his own free will opens a door to the darkness...”

Eneldur was gripping Aryo’s arm so tightly that the young elf winced.

The voices below faded as the unseen elves turned a corner.

“Sauron,” breathed Eneldur. Shock contended with horror, then was overtaken by a strange relief. “So, it was Sauron all along. He incited us, he accused Tuor of treachery. That was why we attacked the Wing… through it all, it was Sauron. It was _not_ my Lord! Now, now I understand!”

Aryo watched something close to elation light in the once-Mole’s eyes, and make him look beautiful.

“I must leave this city,” said Aryo. “And you... you have been seen aiding me. It may be best that you leave as well.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You… want to?”

“I wish to meet my lord again.”

“But do you not understand? Your lord is… gone. This is no longer the lord you once served. There is no more House of the Mole. We live a quiet life in a forest.”

“Then I wish to meet who my lord is now. If your… your _Amil_ was able to impart to you those techniques and skills I saw in the workshop just now, then… my lord lives. And if I may work under… her as you have, I would be honoured.”

Aryo did not doubt the shining sincerity he saw in Eneldur’s face.

“Come then. But there is something I must collect first.” The small palantír in his room. The King might send people there soon, and search through his things. They must not find it.

They were not far from the wing wherein Aryo’s small room lay. They crept lightly over the roof, climbed down carefully by carvings in the wall, and through the window. Eneldur kept watch at the door as Aryo swept notes, papers, tools into a bag—anything that might give a clue who he was and whence he had come—and most important of all, the small, heavy globe slightly larger than his fist. Eneldur hissed a warning. “Lord Rauco and some of the guard are coming down the hallway!”

Out of the window and up upon the roof again. They kept to the shadows as much as they could, but this time the hunter’s moon and the fireworks were not their friends. They heard a shout from below, and knew they were discovered.

Aryo’s heart sank, even as Eneldur pulled him into a shadowed recess by a large tower. They could not stay here long, and soon their pursuers would be here. His first thought was of Arman and his parents. He could not reach Arman by _osanw_ _ë_ , but his parents… he drew out the small, heavy globe, as Eneldur watched in wonder. His mind reached into its dark depths, and golden light swirled as it turned south into the great woods…

And found no one. He prayed: _please, please let someone be there_. And even then he thought, _What should I say? Be on your guard—the secret is out. Forgive us. We should not have come here. We love you… we shall see you soon…_

But there was no response from the palantir in the house by the lake. Aryo stared helplessly at the crystal. He needed to destroy it, linked as it was to the palantir in their home. He would dash it with all his strength against stone of the tower, and shatter it to a hundred pieces…

He raised the crystal, then heard Eneldur gasp.

Turning his head, Aryo saw a _n_ _ís_ walking towards them on the roof. She was tall and strongly built, her glowing hair cascading in thick copper waves to her hips. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up to her elbows, and Aryo noticed her lean, muscular forearms and her large, strong, shapely hands. One look into her grey eyes, shining with warmth and gentleness and wisdom, and he knew who she was. From those generous hips had come eight sons and one daughter. This tower must house the quarters of the Lord and Lady of the Hammer. Hearing the shouts and sighting the two fugitives from her window, she must have climbed out and followed them.

“Are you the son?” she asked Aryo. “Tell me, please—it is true that Lómion has returned from Mandos?”

There was such a glow of expectancy in her face as she asked, and such a kindness and excitement in her voice, that Aryo said, “Yes, _herinya,_ I am her son. My _Amil’s_ name is Lómiel.”

She did not have the classical beauty that the Noldor cherished—her jaw and cheekbones too strong, her skin too freckled—but at his answer, her face blossomed with an incandescent loveliness. “Eru Iluvátar be praised, there is hope,” she said huskily, her eyes moist. “Do not fear, child. Come, come this way.”

The mother of kinslayers held out her hand.

And Aryo, without hesitation, took a bemused Eneldur by the arm and followed her.

 

“Gone?” thundered Turgon.

“Cúmaen is not in his room. All his things are gone.” Duilin sighed and shook his head. “I trusted that boy.”

“Aros was last seen on the roof. I have a score of men up there searching for him now,” reported Rog. “And by the attack on Beldo he has confirmed himself the son of the traitor. And that he understands Quenya.”

“Lying little wretch,” muttered Turgon.

“And he was not alone. A smith of the Moles was with him,” adds Rog.

Galdor swore. “He seeks to gather those loyal to Lómion. What did I say?”

“I already have men guarding the mountain passes and the river,” said Egalmoth.

“And I have men guarding the stables across the city,” said Salgant.

“Their own horses, especially, must be watched,” said Galdor. “I have moved them to the stables of my own House.”

“Are we hunting them as dangerous fugitives? They are boys, who are hearing their mother vilified as a witch, and an ally of Sauron!” protested Penlod, for it was now Penlos who accompanied Ecthelion in the House of the Fountain. “Do you blame them for seeking to flee? By all accounts, Beldo called their Amil an evil whore. Do you wonder that Aros attacked him?”

Before Turgon or the others could reply, there was a flutter of wings at the window.

The falcon sat on the sill and fixed its proud, fierce glare on them.

Then, as Turgon held out a leather-gloved hand, it flew to him, and chirruped its message.

 

Let us go back a little in time and to a place a hundred leagues away.

Three days ago. The hills south of Taniquetil. Less than an hour’s walk from the massive Halls of Aulë on the southwestern face of the mountain, and four days’ ride from Alcarinos.

The white-bearded dwarf beams contentedly as he crawls out of the small cave. Sinking down on the grassy slope outside its mouth, he surveys the land of woodlands and emerald-green rolling hills that lie before him basking in the warm evening sun.

“Here,” he says with a satisfied nod. “This place.”

The pale-haired elf who has followed him out of the cave sinks morosely onto the grass next to him. “You have _years_ left, Gimli. Why need you choose your tomb _now?”_

“Ah, how could an elf understand? I have lived a good, long life. The final leg of the adventure beckons. These old bones have served me well, and ’tis meet I settle their housing. Then all is in readiness for the journey onward! A large granite stone, now, for the entrance. Nothing fancy or too elvish. Where’s some stones to mark this place?”

“No need for markers, _mellon._ I’ll not forget.” _Not this cave, nor this moment, nor any word you have ever uttered to me._

“Aye, you forget nothing, Master Elf,” Gimli says gently, smiling at the sadness of the huge, azure eyes. He claps Legolas on the back. “Ho! Be of good cheer, _khuzsh!_ I’m not about to pop my clogs tomorrow. Or the week after. I have found a house for my bones—that is all. Plans to move in can and will wait. Now, let us re-join the others.”

As they walk down the warm, south-facing slope of the hillside to the meadow full of flowers, Gimli walks with the supple-legged spring of a young dwarrow, and keeps up easily with the long stride of the tall elf by him.

Behind them soars the colossal peak of Taniquetil. Before them spreads the northernmost borders of Oromë’s forests. At the foot of the hill, they come to something strange—a garden. Between them and the eaves of the great forest lies the wild splendour of gently rolling hills and woodlands and flower-filled meadows. But with no house nor hut nor any form of building in sight, there it stood—as fair and fertile a garden as any in Yavanna’s lands, with neat rows of vegetables and bushes of pipeweed, and well-trimmed beds of herbs and flowers, and a couple of child-sized wooden chairs beneath the spreading branches of an oak tree.

And in the side of the hill, the strangest of sights in Aman—a small, round, green door with a knob at the centre.

A silver-bearded maia in white and grey robes is gently closing the green door behind him. Another three maiar of Yavanna hover over the garden and meadow, tending each new shoot and bud and nourishing the soil. They appear not in elven form, but manifest as strange creatures of earth and tree bark and leaf and root, with long, nimble fingers shaped like twigs, and torsos and legs like young birch saplings, and their voices are like the rustle of the wind in the treetops, and soft rumblings like burrowing creatures deep in the earth.

Legolas and Gimli and the silver-bearded maia, the last of a fellowship of nine, join a dozen elves who are gathered in the garden. Surrounded by a riot of the fairest roses and columbines, delphiniums and coralbells, hydrangeas and irises, the elves sit or stand gracefully, singing of the deeds of the _periain_ in Ennorath.

A hundred and thirty _coran_ _ári_ have passed since the Company of the Ring was formed and set out from Imladris. Three life-sized statues mark three small graves. So here beneath a bush of hydrangeas sits Bilbo lazily smoking his pipe, and there by the roses is Frodo writing intently in a great book, and over the elanor—just planted on the newest and freshest grave—stoops a smiling Samwise, shears poised to prune. The elves laugh at times as they sing, and sigh at others, and make fair flower garlands to crown the heads of the halfling statues.

“In song and memory they live with us forever,” says Galadriel as the last notes of Lindir’s lute at last fade away.

“ _Savo hîdh nen gurth_ , Sam,” murmurs Legolas, a tear slipping down his fair face.

“Legolas looks grim,” whispers Erestor to Elrond.

“The death of Samwise reminds him that Gimli, too, will journey on,” replies Elrond, gazing with much empathy at the pale-haired prince, and perhaps thinking of all those he has lost in the Hither Lands.

“But it will be Gimli’s gift to lay his life down when he is ready. As it was Tuor’s, and the Ringbearers’,” says Glorfindel, his azure eyes solemn.

“The issue is when Legolas will be ready to release him,” says Olórin. “I believe Gimli will hold on till then. But leave us he must, in the end.”

Crouching by the statue at Bilbo’s grave, Maeglin seems to be admiring Finrod’s handiwork, shaped out of stone from the quarries below Aulë’s halls. Seating himself by her on the grass, Finrod whimsically slips a large yellow flower behind Bilbo’s ear, which gives the hobbit a raffish air.

“How did you sculpt these in so short a time?” she asks, running her fingers over the carved creases in Bilbo’s stone waistcoast. Finrod had transported the rough stone a league with Legolas and Glorfindel’s help, and finished the three small statues in little more than a day and a night.

“The size of halflings was helpful. And several millennia of experience in sculpting,” he says lightly. He sees her question for the camouflage it is. “You knew Bilbo Baggins well?”

“Barely,” she says, her face an expressionless mask. “He visited a dozen times, but he was only a true resident at Imladris nineteen years.”

Finrod has heard a different tale from Glorfindel. The elderly hobbit had befriended every elf in the household in his years there. When he had sat at Maeglin’s side during dinners, they had talked of dwarves and Erebor and she had taught him what _khuzdul_ she knew. He had sat occasionally with Estel outside Maeglin’s workshop window as the Dúnadan and hobbit composed songs together. Glorfindel had been dumbfounded when he first returned from a patrol and found his wife having tea with Erestor and Bilbo in the hobbit’s room. During the War of the Ring, as the twins had grown within her, she had walked in the twilight with Arwen and the elderly hobbit and even tolerated him singing his Eärendil song.

“It is not easy for us of the _quendi_ to witness the Gift of Men, no matter how much death by battle or mishap we have seen,” says Finrod. “Death by nature is unnatural to us. Bëor was my friend only forty-four years. He died in my arms.” Even after so many millennia, his eyes are soft with sadness at the loss. “The _f_ _írimar…_ so frail yet so strong, so ephemeral yet so doughty. They touch our lives a brief season, but leave a mark that endures forever.”

She shifts her shoulders in something close to a shrug. “I did not witness Bilbo’s passing. It touches me not.” The aged hobbit had died in the Blessed Realm ninety years before the last ship from Mithlond sailed.

Finrod smiles gently. When they arrived at the hobbit hole two days ago, Maeglin had not even wished to enter it, choosing instead to hover outside the round door, to sit far from either Frodo or Bilbo’s graves, and gaze—wistfully? nervously?—at the mansions of Aulë in the mountainside, just visible over the ridge to the northwest.

“Samwise and I hardly know each other,” she had said shortly. “I see no need for farewells.”

Again not quite true. There had been journeys to Bree and the Shire when the twins were elflings, and over the first three decades of the Fourth Age, Arman and Aryo had played in turn with each of Samwise and Rosie’s thirteen tiny children.

What finally compelled Maeglin to venture into the Ringbearers’ smial as evening fell, none could say. She had witnessed Samwise breathe his last, witnessed Olórin gently closing his eyes. Finrod had raised his gaze from the hobbit’s peaceful mien to Maeglin’s stricken one, and seen a single, sudden tear slide down her pale, perfect cheek. Then she had turned and fled, and Glorfindel had run after her.

_Bilbo was dear to you as you will never admit. As others were dear to you in Endórë and have now passed beyond the circle of this world. In that single tear at Sam’s deathbed was all the grief for their mortality that you seek to deny._

But all Finrod now says in the face of her denial is, “Bilbo passed on peacefully in his armchair one morning after second breakfast. Frodo and Olórin stood on either side of him, and held his hands. He breathed his last with a smile on his face.”

Glorfindel interrupts them. “Others come,” he says softly.

And turning their heads, Maeglin and Finrod see that a score and seven elves have appeared on a ridge to the northwest, some on horses, some on foot.

“I recognize some elves from the Halls of Aulë, and others from Tirion, and yet others from Tol Eressëa,” Finrod says.

“Swiftly have the birds borne tidings of Samwise’s passing,” remarks Erestor. “Eldamar comes to honour him.”

“And shall hear the Lay of the Ringbearers again, if they desire it!” exclaims Lindir, relishing the thought of a new audience.

“It is time I flee,” mutters Maeglin. “Too close to Eldamar is this for comfort. _Novaer, mellyn.”_

The hastiest of farewells are exchanged. Hand in hand, Maeglin and Glorfindel walk away swiftly through the meadow to their horses, then ride towards the eaves of the woods that will swallow them into its shadows.

“I wonder that Arman and Aryo did not come,” says Legolas.

“Ah, my grandsons are in the Crystal Caves,” says Finrod. “They could not be reached by palantír. Methinks I shall ride south, and seek them there.”

“Ah, that.” Gimli gives a cough. “I wouldn’t ride _south_ to find the lads, _Felak-gundu_ , if I were you.”

Finrod eyes the dwarf penetratingly. “What do you mean, _khuzsh?”_

 

 

* * *

 

_Glossary_

Ela! Lómion, Cundu i Ondolindeva [Q] – Behold! Lómion, Prince of Gondolin

Harya mára lomë [Q] – have a good night

Khuzsh [Khuzdul] – friend

Nésaya [Q] – my sister

Quiltyalië [Q] – quilta (“encircle”) + “tyalië” (“game”). It resembles the strategy board game _Go._

Savo hîdh nen gurth [S] – Have peace in death (Rest in peace)

 

 ** _OK, so obviously this wasn’t the last chapter_**. My urgency at wanting to finish this story may seem odd, but I foresee a lot of disruptions in RL in the near future, and I don’t want to leave this fic hanging for months on end. So, my apologies for always trying to make the current chapter the final chapter. At the same time I don’t want to cram or force it too much, and let things develop more naturally. So here is another chapter with… maybe one or two or three more to come? I have no idea, really, so whatever comes next will be as much of a surprise to me as to you.

[Hmm… I may also have regrets, backpedal, and decide to change some things in the last few chapters if in the end I dislike how things are developing. That’s the problem with writing in instalments and not really having a clear idea what should happen next.]

 ** _Orodreth as brother to Finrod, not nephew:_** The Silmarillion version of things has been so deeply entrenched in me since childhood, that even though Tolkien changed his mind and in his later versions decided that Gil-galad should be Orodreth’s son, and Orodreth should be Angrod’s son, I have not been able to accept it. So for me, Orodreth remains the second son of Finarfin, and Gil-galad remains Fingon’s son, and the High Kingship of the Noldor in Ennor remains firmly in the House of Fingolfin. And Orodreth has only sired Finduilas, and Angrod has a couple of unnamed kids.

 ** _Finrod and Turgon as besties_** : After observing dudes and bromances and friendships over the years (primarily my other half) I have concluded that a best friend for a guy is someone he does stuff with, hangs out with, who is just There when he is down, who has his back when he needs it, but… it doesn’t necessarily mean he tells him all his deep dark secrets or shares (that dreaded word) Feelings. They may not see each other for millennia, then just pick right up from where they left off. Considering that after their dreams by Sirion Finrod and Turgon did not say a word to each other, but just went their ways and did their thing founding secret cities, I think that’s what their friendship would have been like.

 ** _On hobbits in Valinor_** : Of course, Tolkien never tells us how long the hobbits lived in Valinor before they died, but he was quite clear that going there did not confer immortality on them. He did suggest that the vitality of Aman would make them burn out even faster, but I decided not to go with that.

My headcanon is that Bilbo lives about 30 years there. He and Frodo initially spend some time in the gardens of Estë. Healed of their pains and burdens and given a second lease of life, they have the chance to converse with a lot of loremasters among the Noldor, do poetry slams with the Vanyar, and sing with the Teleri. They are of course honoured wherever they go, and meet all the major edhil in the histories of Ennor, but they hang out and chill mostly with Olórin, Eärendil, Elwing, Galadriel, and Elrond. Sometime after the first ten years, they get a little homesick for the Shire, and that stretch of countryside south of Taniquetil reminds them of it, so they make a smial there and begin a bit of a garden, and Yavanna even blesses them with a little pipeweed. They don’t stay much there, though, as they spend a lot of time in Valmar and Tirion, which have no end of splendid diversions, and people with whom to have deep and fascinating conversations. In their 25th year there or so, Bilbo begins to slow down and they spend more time in their smial leading a quiet life, and get a steady flow of visitors, especially from Olórin, and the families of Galadriel (Finrod of course) and Elrond. After Bilbo passes on, Frodo spends more time on Tol Eressëa with Elrond’s household. He feels he is waiting for something, or someone, and finally in the 60th year, Sam sails in on a white ship. After years as mayor, Sam is not overawed by kings and princes making much of him, but after some time on the Tirion-Valmar-Avallonë social circuit he really just wants a quiet life and Frodo’s companionship, so they spend most of their time at the hobbit hole, and Sam creates a beautiful garden there with friendly help from Yavanna and her maiar. Frodo after 30-40 years of this begins to feel the call to the other side, and peacefully passes on. Now on his own, Sam travels a bit each year, but spends most of his time at the hobbit hole and tending his garden. He is a bit of a celebrity and entertains great folk as guests from time to time. In the last five years of his life, he doesn’t venture away from the hobbit hole, but all those mentioned at the funeral above are regular visitors, especially Gimli, Legolas and Olórin. Then, missing Rosie too much and eager to see her again, he broadcasts to his friends that he’s ready to move on, so they all come running. Maeglin and Glorfindel would have rushed north probably within a week of Ecthelion leaving.


	44. Friends in High Places

Tirion of the crystal stairs, streets of pearl, and lofty white spires. Mother of cities in Eldamar.

If many still esteemed it the fairest and noblest city of the Noldor, it was certainly no longer the largest of the four. Exiles had swelled the numbers at Kortirion to close to two hundred thousand, and as it was not perched on a high hill, Fingolfin’s city on Tol Eressëa had spread south and east across the hilly lands at the heart of the island, covering an area almost twice the size of Tirion. Formenos, ruled by Celebrimbor in the north, had its own stern splendour, but only sixty thousand dwelled there with him in its cool hill country. Alcarinos, hailed as the new shining jewel of Eldamar, had eighty thousand.

But ancient Tirion, high on Túna, home to a hundred and twenty thousand _edhil_ could not be compared to any of these others. Listen very carefully, and you may yet hear it—the very stones and crystals singing still of a time of starlight and the light of Two Trees. A song it has sung for over ten thousand years.

The golden-haired prince loved that song. He could almost hear it again, as he sat on Tirion’s western wall. Or he would have, if not for the cheerful voice of his youngest cousin.

“Ango, you have not yet beheld our new amphitheatre at Kortirion!” exclaimed the tall raven-haired prince. “It seats ten thousand—and so perfect is the sound that you could hear a mouse sneeze in the middle of the arena no matter where you sit.”

“Is that where you plan to be wed, then, Arno?” said his golden-haired cousin, as politely as he was able, and skilfully stifling a yawn. He was fond enough of the youngest grandchild of Finwë, but talk of wedding music and rings and other nuptial preparations was boring the Arafinwion to tears.

“Indeed, cousin. It is the only venue able to seat the number of guests with whom we wish to share our joy.” He gazed down adoringly at the dark-haired beauty seated at his side. Her family dwelled in Tirion, and the happy couple planned to make their future home there. “And Arë and I would like to enter on the back of an eagle.”

Angrod stared at them incredulously. “And you have actually _found_ an eagle who would consent to _that?”_

“Not yet. Is it too showy, do you think?”

Thoughts of heartwrenching rescues from Thangorodrim and Orodruin, noble corpses recovered after battle for burial, and epic battles with orcs and trolls and dragons flashed through Angrod’s mind. The golden-haired prince was about to say something scathing about how the eagles would probably respond to the proposed nuptial joyride, but his friendship with his cousin was saved by a commotion at the Western Gate below them.

Hastily descending to discover the cause, the prince of Tirion found a crowd gathered around two travellers just returned from Alcarinos.

“ _Sauron revived once again, and returned to Aman!”_ was the murmur that had begun to spread. “ _Sauron and the traitor of Ondolind_ _ë rebodied!”_

In a voice like thunder, the Iron Prince bellowed for peace, sharply reminded the people that Sauron’s power had been utterly destroyed in Ennor, that the Valar would not brook his return even if he had the means of it, nor was any _f_ _ëa_ ever reborn across the ocean. Then commanding the guards at the gate to restore order in the crowd and quell the spread of rumours, the Arafinwion whisked the two travellers to the King’s House at the foot of the Mindon Eldaliéva, where they related the tale in full to the High King and his third son.

The High King seldom wore his crown except during feasts, and at the moment he was not even wearing a circlet, for he had been stargazing in his private gardens on the palace roof. And yet, though he wore only a simple white linen robe, and his bright golden hair fell loose to his waist, he looked every inch the king he had been for the past seven thousand years. He listened with calm attention to the travellers’ tale, and was not the first to speak.

“A _n_ _ér_ reborn as a _n_ _ís?_ ” Angrod raised his eyebrows at the two travellers. “I am tempted to think, my good sirs, that you had a cup too many of my cousin’s strong wine at the festival.”

“Nay, Prince Angaráto. We were making ready to return to Tirion. We supped simply with our sister at her home, and took no part in the revelries this night.”

“And they say this traitor was reborn across the ocean—rather than stepping forth from the doors of Mandos?” King Finarfin said with wonder.

“ _Nold_ _óran_ , we know how absurd it sounds—but we relate no more than what we heard. Truly this is what is being spread abroad in Alcarinos, and its people are in disarray and much distress.”

One of the travellers hesitated ere he spoke. “There is one more thing we heard in the streets as we made our way to the pass, _Nold_ _óran_.”

The king and the prince were silent as the traveller related the other rumour. “But of this, we spoke to none upon our return, _heruvinya_. Prince Findaráto is beloved to us all, and we know him well. We do not believe this could be true.”

“And oh, _heruvinya_ ,” the other traveller chimed in, “the hero and the traitor are said to have children.”

There was a moment of silence, then the High King spoke. “We thank you for your report of these matters, good sirs. Go in peace to your homes, but speak no more to any of these things.”

“Well!” exclaimed Angrod once the men had left. “I must find out what Turukáno’s people have been adding to their wines! Even when the Tirionrim laced their drink with dreamberry juice, last Yestarë, we had no such strange reports erupting. Once the Alcarim come to their senses on the morrow, the rumours will surely die.” Not once had Angrod spoken of his suspicions as to Glorfindel’s parentage to his father. The prince was more profoundly troubled by both the tales than he wished to show. “No one who knows Ingoldo would ever believe such a tale of him.” _But they might believe it of Aikan_ _áro. Hell, this might start people thinking._

Finarfin was gazing out of the window with his wise, far-seeing eyes, hands clasped behind his back. “It is indeed strange beyond belief. And yet I find myself unable to scoff at either story. Too oft have rumours of even so outlandish a nature proven to contain a strange grain of truth in them, no matter how small.” Across the valley, Valmar glittered at the foot of Taniquetil. Beyond it, unseen, were the forests where the rumours said a traitor and a dark lord hid with a bright hero in their thrall. The _Nold_ _óran_ turned his noble head to face his son. “Both stories touch the House of Finwë deeply. If true, I have a new grandson, and my brother, a new granddaughter. By Eru almighty, if true, Nolo and I have new great-grandchildren!” The thought lit his face briefly, then he sobered. “If false… where are the seeds from which these rumours first sprung?”

“Hah. I’d wager the seeds lie no deeper than a potent barrel of wine,” scoffed Angrod, trying to convince himself.

Finarfin smiled gently and turned his gleaming golden head to look out of the window again. “It would almost be a pity. The idea of new descendants is pleasing.”

Angrod almost choked. “ _Atar!_ You do not believe this valarauco slayer could possibly be a secret babe of any of your children… do you?”

The High King tapped his chin thoughtfully, and did not answer directly. “It occurs to me that I never did get to meet this hero of Ondolindë, all those years that he resided in Aman. I saw once a portrait in Turukáno’s palace. The likeness is there. Even then, I had wondered.”

“ _Atar_ , which one of us could have been so heartless or feckless? To secretly spirit away one’s own flesh and blood at birth, and never acknowledge him? That would be scandalous! Reprehensible!”

“Heartless? Feckless? Such harsh words, _yonya_. Myriad and mysterious are the motives of the heart, and infinitely strange and tragic can be the events that unfold in Arda Marred.” He paused then added thoughtfully, “I note that Ingoldo has been all but missing from our court for five years. And it is known that Laurefindil returned to Aman five years ago.”

That was true. Finrod and Amárië had last appeared at the High King’s begetting day feast. They had gushed happily about the beauties of the wild lands south… then vanished once more three days after. 

The wild lands south, where rumour said that a bewitched balrog slayer dwelled…

Angrod, suddenly deeply shaken by doubt, sought to reassure himself more than anything else. “Ingo! Impossible. Transparent as he is, he could never have fathered a child in secret. True as he is, he could never have bedded any but Amárië.”

Finarfin gravely nodded assent to his son’s words. “I know that well, _yonya_. And yet…”

Then something struck Angrod. Something he had waited two thousand years to ask his sister, then utterly forgotten upon her return. “Artanis knows the truth!” he exclaimed. “’Twas _she_ who brought the babe to Turno. ’Tis _she_ who knows the secret of Laurefindil’s birth. And yet—for the past century since her return I never thought once to ask her!”

His father received this outburst calmly. “Hmm… the mind powers of my _anel_ are impressive, if disturbing. And for her to keep and so assiduously protect a secret as she has for thousands of years, tells us one thing. There is indeed a grain of truth in the rumour.” He surveyed the dark, star-strewn sky outside the window once more. “How the stars sing on their journey across the heavens, Ango. A beautiful night for a ride to Alcarinos.”

Angrod looked uneasy. “ _Atar,_ how will it look if the High King himself hastens to the scene in the middle of the night? In your eagerness to discover the truth about these possible descendants of yours, you announce to all that you give these tales enough credence to investigate them yourself, and without delay. Or it might look to others that you have little faith in Turukáno’s ability to quash these rumours and restore order to his city himself. He would resent that.”

“I know that, _yonya_. And since I have every faith in Turukáno _, I_ am not riding there.” Finarfin serenely turned his bright head to gaze at his son. “ _You_ are.”

It was true that in their youth, the Finwëan cousins had visited each other with impunity any hour of the day or night as the fancy struck them. It would be like the old days again. Bursting with curiosity about the rumours, eager to discover what he might about this possible secret son, Angrod needed no further prompting.

Within twenty minutes, the third son of the House of Finarfin was riding west.

 

The King of Alcarinos rewarded his falcon with a treat which it wolfed down ravenously as it sat on its perch. _Thus has the word of the Elder King vindicated the Lord of the Fountain,_ Turgon thought. _I owe Ecthelion an apology_. Then, descending from his falcons’ mews in the tower attic, Turgon returned to his high tower chamber where his lords still stood gathered in earnest talk.

“—could the Elder King have been clearer? There is naught to fear,” said Penlod.

“Indeed, it would imply that both Lómion and Laurefindil may be received back without fear into our society,” asserted Duilin.

“—‘May be’ and ‘should be’ are two different matters. How could Lómion ever live in our midst again? However cleansed he or she may be, the people’s memories of the dreadful past cannot be erased,” countered Rog.

“Ay, it would bring shadow and suspicion, distress and discord into our city. Better they remain where they are. The further the better,” asserted Egalmoth.

“I, for one, would never abide his or her setting foot in our midst ever again, no matter what the Valar say,” Galdor said darkly.

“What of the sons?” asked Salgant. “Should we not send word to Elemmakil to recall all guards at the passes? There is no harm in letting them go free.”

“After they have attacked Rauco’s men, and fled so guiltily?” retorted Galdor. “They have shown themselves dangerous and duplicitous. I say, bring them in still for questioning and for a reckoning. Since when is violence in Aman so lightly countenanced?”

The lords regarded their King.

“I desire still to have a word with these children,” said Turgon. “Find them if they may be found. Approach them with caution, but do not handle them roughly. Accord them due courtesy as my… kinsmen.” He moved towards the door. “And summon Ecthelion.”

 

Arman stared in perplexity at the empty stable stall.

 _“It was Legolas,”_ said the handsome bay in the stall next door. _“He said Mairos was required to move.”_

Arman’s perplexity deepened. He knew the bay did not speak of the son of Thranduil, but another Legolas of some fame, who had received honourable mention in the annals of the fall of Gondolin.

_Legolas of the House of the Tree._

Thanking the bay, Arman left the House of the Swallow, his pack slung over his shoulder and his mind a tumult of fears and anxieties.

There was a simple reason Duilin had not been able to find Arman in his room.

On his way to the stables, Arman had felt a pang of guilt at running away in so churlish a fashion. With virtually all in the House of the Swallow at the festivities, Arman had met no one as he turned his feet to Duilin’s quarters. So it was that at the time Duilin went to the archer’s little room to find it abandoned, Arman had been sitting in the Lord of the Swallow’s study penning a letter of gratitude and apology. _“…forgive me my sudden departure, herunya, and that I have imposed upon your hospitality and kindness under a false identity…_ ” Waving the parchment to dry the ink, Arman folded the note and left it upon Duilin’s desk.

And now Mairos was gone. What did the House of the Tree want with his horse? Knowing it boded ill, Arman wondered if he should head north to the House of the Hammer to rouse Aryo first.

Instead, pulling up his hood so his face was shadowed, he cautiously crossed one of the twelve bridges over the river to the House of the Tree. The moon had set behind the western mountains, and all was silvered only with starlight, and lit by the occasional firework still blossoming in the heavens above. Arman gave a wide berth to the murmuring huddles of elves he saw, though he cast them curious glances. Thus it was that none of the rumours touched his ears ere he approached the stables of the Tree—and saw two of their men standing at the entrance. He ducked back into a niche between two pillars, for their alert, watchful poses told him they were not mere stable hands on duty. They were guarding the horses.

Arman had explored this place thoroughly on the first day Aryo had been laid up in the hall of healing. At that time, the mere existence of a fiery-haired maiden had made the House of the Tree a place magical and wondrous to his young heart. He had explored the corridors and courtyards, enraptured by the thought that her feet would have trodden them too. So it was that he knew of another way to the stables, through the courtyard of the hall of healing, and past the hall of music. There were windows on that side, and he could climb into the stables… but since he could hardly charge out of the stable doors with the horses and ride through the guards (he imagined for a brief moment the wild chase through the city streets that would ensue) he decided to go to Aryo first. Together, the two of them would figure a way out of this.

“Cúmaen,” whispered a dulcet voice that sent tingles through him.

He turned and saw her—just returned from the House of the Golden Flower. She was looking at him strangely.

“You are leaving,” she whispered, a statement, not a question.

“Yes, Nárriel. I must.”

“It is truly farewell, then?”

He hesitated. _“N_ _á,”_ he said. Then, taking hold of her hand, he pulled her into a deep, shadowy recess where they had to stoop slightly, faces close, so as not to hit their heads against the elbow of a statue of Yavanna that stood there.

“There is something I want you to know,” he whispered. “Even if you hate me forever. It will sound absurd and impossible—but I swear it is true. My _nostari_ were lords of Ondolindë. My _Atar_ is Laurefindil of the Golden Flower. And my _Amil_ —my _Amil_ —is—was—is—Lóm—” It choked in his throat like dry ashes. He drew breath to say it, thinking as he did so: _I want to remember this look on her face—this moment—gentle and curious and glowing—and not how she’s going to look once I tell her._

But ere he could speak it, she whispered in response, “Lómion of the Mole?” Her eyes were sorrowful but strangely soft.

His mouth dropped open. “You… _know?”_

“Half the kingdom knows, Cúmaen,” she said gently. “I just heard it from one of my father’s men. The King and his Lords are looking for you.” She almost smiled. “You have your father’s eyes and mouth, I think.” _And perhaps more than some of his nature,_ she thought.

 _Half the kingdom knows._ He stared at her in shock and horror. _“Ai_ … this is all my fault! I have to find my brother and leave now.”

“Ah, so no _friend,_ then, but a brother. Have you any other lies to confess?”

“None I can think of.”

“You have returned here for your horse, have you not?”

“I have.”

She reached out and brushed her fingers lightly down his cheek. “Then, Cúmaen-Arman-Truthsayer, let me do one thing for you ere we part.”

And he watched, stunned, as she strode purposefully towards the men guarding the stables. “Legolas!” she called in a clear, ringing voice. “Legolas! Halion! Hasten you now to my father at the House of the King!”

“What of the horses, Nárriel?”

“The horses matter no longer,” she said briskly. “Tarry not, but go!”

From behind Yavanna’s statue, Arman watched as the two _ellyn_ strode past and out of the entrance to the House of the Tree.

Arman ran to Nárriel. “Will you not get into trouble for that?” he chided her. “Will not your father punish you?”

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. “It is done. Do not waste it. Quickly—get your horses and follow me.”

“Is there a safe place I can leave Mairos and Talegar? I must get my brother.”

“The orchard beyond the back gate. Go to your brother—I shall bring the horses there. I can show you little-trodden mountain paths out of the city where they will not have set any guards.” 

His azure eyes were soft with a look that made her heart beat faster. “You are the most splendid girl that ever breathed in Arda.”

She smiled luminously. “Hurry. I shall wait for you by the Eagle Stone on the western edge of the peach orchard. Do you know it?”

The stone shaped like an eagle’s head was well known and Arman had heard of it in his brief week in the valley. “I shall find it. May I leave this with you?” She nodded and took the travel bag from his hand. He took her hand, kissed it, then ran into the night.

Alone, she went to the stables, and the horses nickered at her as she greeted them. She set Arman’s bag on the straw by Mairos, then paused. It would take her but a few minutes to return to her room and pack a few things, she thought. Then, when, she returned, she would lead three horses, not two, to the Eagle Stone. She would ride with them till they were out of the city…

And then? She thought no further than that, but on swift feet sped to her quarters.

 

Aryo and Eneldur sat on the floor of the room and gratefully sipped cups of mulled wine.

This tower room was a studio with tall windows, located high above the Lady of the Hammer’s huge workshops on the ground floor, where her large sculptures were created. A lamp sitting on the floor glowed bluish-white, irradiating the room as with moonlight.

Nerdanel sat herself on a small stool across from her guests, and regarded them with kind, thoughtful eyes. In this room, she was not the Lady of the Hammer. She was the mother of the seven sons of the greatest craftsman that ever lived, the most powerful elf Arda would ever see. Many small sculptures no higher than Aryo’s waist stood around the room. There were raw blocks of stone against one wall, and a dozen works arrayed around the chamber were still in different stages of progress. Aryo admired the finished works ranged about him. One masterpiece was a group of seven knee-high _neri_ laughing and talking to each other, and Aryo saw the same seven faces repeated on a number of busts, statues and bas reliefs around the room. A shrine to sons lost and still longed for.

Aryo’s eyes rested on one statue in particular. He stared at the smiling _n_ _ér_ playing a harp. _So young, so beautiful… and so happy,_ thought Aryo.

Nerdanel followed Aryo’s gaze, then looked questioningly at him.

“I saw him once, _herinya_. Makalaurë Kanafinwë.”

“You did?” The mother’s face was so desperately eager, Aryo could have wept. “Where? How did he look? Was he well?”

“It was in our valley, Imladris. He went there now and again, but ever hid from us. We saw him, at last, just once, ere we sailed. He was well.” He hesitated. _But so thin, so sorrowful, a shadow of himself_...

“May I see him as you did?” she asked softly.

He nodded his permission, and closed his eyes as he allowed her to take the image from his mind. When he opened his eyes again, tears were flowing down her cheeks.

“I am sorry,” he said, stricken.

“Do not be,” she said. “You have given me something precious beyond price.”

“My _Amil_ spoke to him a long while. She begged him sail with us to Aman… but he declined. He said the way was shut to him forever.”

She wept harder at that. “I spoke with Ereinion, with Artanis, with Elrond the Perelda. None, not one could tell me aught of Kano or his whereabouts for the past six millennia.” She wiped the tears from her eyes. “ _Hantanyel. Hantanyel, vinyamo._ And I would speak further with your _Amil_ if I may.”

Aryo gazed down at his cup. “I doubt Lord Rauco would approve of his Lady having aught to do with a traitor and her issue.”

She smiled tenderly at the mention of her lord’s name. “Lord Rauco, for all his fearsome reputation, is a kind and reasonable man. Tell me now how you ended up on the roof by my tower.”

And seething with anger at the injustice of the slurs being cast on his family, he told of why and how he had come to Alcarinos with his twin, what he had heard in the courtyard, and how he had struck Beldo then fled. Then, as she questioned further, he told his mother’s story.

“I served the Lord of the Mole for a century,” affirmed Eneldur, when Aryo’s tale was done. “He was a good lord, grim but just.”

Nerdanel nodded. “Rauco and I have sought out what few Moles we could, and spoken to them. Most think well of Lómion as you do, Eneldur, but barely dare speak it.”

Aryo ran a hand over his hair and frowned. “I regret my violence against the man of the Hammer. How badly was he hurt?”

“His nose is an interesting colour and twice its size at present,” Nerdanel said matter-of-factly. “It should be itself again in three to five days. No other hurt did he sustain but bruises.”

Aryo relaxed visibly with relief. “Eru be thanked.” He glanced at the Lady. “Why did you aid us, _herinya?”_

“My daughter had spoken well of you to me and Lord Rauco. Hearing the rumours, I thought of my own sons. And when I heard that you struck Beldo, I thought that if any _n_ _ér_ had so cast a slur upon me, Tyelkormo and Carnistir would have done worse to him.” Nerdanel reached out her hand to trace the cheek and jawline of a bust sitting on the floor near her—a face fair and strong, but with a fey, wild look to the eyes. She shook her head ruefully and poured her guests another round of mulled wine. “Much though I mislike violence, I understand why you acted as you did. I did not wish to see you and your friend dragged like miscreants before the King with your hands bound behind your backs. I wished, moreover, to hear your side of the story. For millennia I have wondered what my sons’ version of history would be, as I read the records of their evil deeds writ by their victims.”

“And what do you think, now that you have heard my side of the story and my mother’s?”

Her clear eyes scrutinized his face. “That you speak truth, Arinnáro Laurefindilion, and your mother was a traitor certainly but no villain. _Was_. Past deeds in a past life, unforgotten but atoned for. I will help you as I may.”

Aryo set down his empty cup. “I must find my brother, _herinya_. We must leave, and Eneldur with us if he wishes.”

“I do wish it,” said the once-Mole.

Nerdanel nodded, but her eyes were distant. “I dream, at times, of my sons’ return from Mandos. Of Rauco and I moving to my father’s house in Tirion, and how we would be one large family once more, as when my sons were young.” She smiled wryly. “Rauco laughs when I tell him. An unlikely fantasy. Having witnessed what horror and hysteria your mother’s re-housing has stirred, even though she be a _n_ _ís_ and _amil_ , and no longer even the man she once was, I would wish all my sons far, far from Eldamar, deep in some forest in the south, even as your _nostari_ now are. There, they may live at peace, undisturbed. And I would rejoice to know them free…” Rousing herself, she spoke more briskly, thinking aloud. “I have a wagon of statues, to be delivered to the palace at Tirion come morn. Mayhap I could hide you in it. But nay. There are three of you, and it would be too tight a fit.”

Aryo looked stricken. “And we would have to abandon our horses, faithful steeds we have known all our lives.”

“Then lie low here in this room for a time, till their vigilance drops. A few days, a week. Once the guards are gone from the passes, mayhap you could ride out—not all together, which would surely draw too much notice, but one by one, in the mornings when there is much traffic on the roads in and out of the city.”

“In broad daylight? That would be audacious!” exclaimed Eneldur.

“And unexpected, which is to your advantage,” said Nerdanel. “You could further disguise yourselves.”

“We could dress my brother as a _n_ _ís_. He would make a very pretty one,” said Aryo, and half-smiled at the thought, for the first time since things fell apart. He took another mouthful of mulled wine, then frowned again.

“What is it?” asked Eneldur.

“I was just thinking…” Aryo murmured, “if I run, would that not prove my guilt  and wickedness? Would it not confirm all the ill spoken of my mother?” He sighed. “What would my father do in my place? He would never run. He would face Beldo openly, and ask forgiveness. He would go before the King, and attempt to plead my mother’s cause, and seek to have him understand.”

Eneldur looked at him as though he was insane. “Arinnáro… the King loved your father greatly. But you are not your father. What if the King be wrothful, and imprison you?”

“My _nostari_ have no voice in this city, save mine, I owe it to them to take the risk.” He turned to Nerdanel. “ _Herinya_ , what are your thoughts?”

Nerdanel looked at him long, then smiled. “That your _nostari_ would be both appalled at the risk you take and proud of your courage. Most willingly would I go to Turukáno with you, and add my voice to yours.  No love has he for my sons or Fëanáro. But me, he respects.”

“ _Herinya_ , you have my deepest gratitude,” said Aryo. “But I… I need to face the King on my own.”

“May Eru grant you favour before him, then.” Her eyes had been wandering curiously over his hair, and now she asked, “What is it that shines so bright atop your head?”

Aryo gazed at her in some bewilderment. He so hated the sight of himself with dark hair that he had assiduously avoided looking in a mirror for the past week. “What?”

She raised the lamp. “At the crown—there, along your scalp. Glimmers of gold.”

“Oh,” he said, understanding dawning. “My hair must be beginning to grow out. That is my natural colour, _herinya_. My brother and I thought it well to disguise ourselves.”  

She looked startled at the very idea, then she chuckled. “Laurefindil’s son indeed. If that is your natural hue beneath the black, ’tis no wonder you sought to disguise it here. How did you do it?”

“Walnuts.”

“Ah, of course. I have many times used walnuts to stain my wooden sculptures. The colour is strong.”

“Too strong,” Aryo said rather bitterly. “I have not felt like myself for a week.”

“Well, it seems that the time for disguises is over. And more easily will you sway the King’s heart with a golden head of hair, methinks.” There was a mischievous twinkle in her eye as she said this. Raven as his own head was, it was notable that all Turgon’s great loves were golden—his wife, his daughter, his foster grandson, and his cousin and best friend.

Aryo brightened and looked at her hopefully. “Have you any lemons, _herinya?”_

“A bushelful in the kitchens, just delivered from Valmar!” She laughed as she took hold of one of his locks and examined the ends by the lamplight. “Lemon juice alone will not suffice! But fortunately I have a potion that I mix with it to remove such stains from my skin and hair… Wait here, _vinyamo._ ” She set down the lamp, and rising, she left the room.

 

Wearing now a riding dress, and with a light pack on her shoulder, Nárriel was running past the entrance of the House of the Tree and back to the stables when she heard a curious, gruff voice out on the street. It spoke not Quenya nor Sindarin nor any dialect she knew of. A familiar-sounding voice replied in what sounded like the same tongue, and she quickly moved towards the entrance to see the speakers. 

By starlight, she saw a curious being walking past the entrance to the House of the Tree—short as a boy, but squat, broad-shouldered, and with stumpy legs. A thick growth of hair had he on his face, as Aulë or Mahtan did, but his hair was milk-white, braided with beads, and hung to his knees. He turned to the lithe elf who walked at his side, and again uttered something incomprehensible in that strange, deep, rumbling voice. Hooded in green, bow and arrows upon his back, the elf turned his head as he answered the dwarf in the same strange tongue, and when Nárriel saw, with a shock, his features by a burst of fireworks in the sky above, and heard the cadences of his voice, she had no doubt who he was.

“Cúmaen!” she cried sharply. The two, tall and short, turned to stare at her, their faces blank and puzzled. “You are quick. Where is your brother?” she said in Quenya, walking to them.

The _ellon_ laughed, stepped towards her, and bowed courteously, but in a more rustic style than he was wont, and his clothes—where on earth had he dug up those dreadful clothes?—were not what he had worn ten minutes past. “Fair maiden,” he said in quaintly-accented rustic Sindarin. “I have not the honour of your acquaintance. You mistake me, surely, for another—”

After the first moment of astonishment, her eyes flashed with emerald fire and she almost stamped her foot at him. “What game do you play? Lies, lies and pretence again?” she snapped in Quenya.

The _ellon_ elegantly lifted an eyebrow. In the starlight, his beautiful features were unmistakable, but his entire manner was different from what it had been just ten minutes past. His azure eyes observed her with perfect detachment, and his luminous smile, though impeccably courteous, seemed to be extending patience to a slow-witted child. He waggled a finger at her. “No speak Quenya,” he said carefully in the most atrocious Quenya she had ever heard. “Speak Sindarin. Me—Sinda. Silvan. You understand? Me no know you. Pardon—”

Rage and hurt flooded her with so much pain she could barely breathe. What effrontery! What an actor he was! Had she actually trusted and believed in him? And how could he be so cruel, so monstrous, as to openly mock and humiliate her in this fashion? Rasco was right. What a dupe, what an utter fool she had been.

“Oh, I understand,” she retorted in rapid-fire, fluent Sindarin, her voice tight with anger. “I understand that you are a monstrous cur and a fraud and rotten to the core, you mound of maggots!” And lunging forward, she aimed a strong punch at his face. As he dodged it, his hood fell back, and a mass of silken pale-golden hair was revealed. They stared at each other, equally astounded, and she lifted her hand to her mouth. A hand pushed at her elbow, and the dwarf—for she realized that was what he must be—stood between them and hurriedly spoke in comprehensible though peculiar Sindarin, “Maiden, you saw one, looks like him?” He pointed up at his companion. “Same face? We too look for him.”

She looked from the dwarf to the elf. There was no mockery in them, none. Their faces were earnest, intent. Gazing into the clear, azure eyes of the stranger, she murmured, “Are you his twin?”

“Nay, a friend.”

“What goes on here!” called a ringing voice. “Nárriel?”

And they looked round to see Galdor of the Tree bearing down on them with six men, two of whom had not long ago been guarding the stables. And seeing the blond _ellon_ , they drew their knives—only the King’s Guard actually carried swords around anymore, and those were more of a ceremonial make than true battle swords—and the blond immediately drew a long hunting knife. The men of the Tree halted.

“’Tis poor hospitality you folk of Alcarinos show to travellers,” said the blond in Sindarin, his azure eyes flashing.

“Ay. I thought you elves in Elvenhome have laws against weapons being drawn on folk,” said the dwarf in Westron. “We come in peace,” he added in his best Sindarin, as he hefted a dangerous-looking axe at the men of the Tree.

“Son of the traitor, Cúmaen or whatever your true name may be,” said Galdor in Quenya, “Cease this foolishness. Surrender and no one need be hurt.”

“ _Atto,_ he does not speak Quenya,” cried Nárriel.

“Of course he does, _anelya.”_

“This is not Cúmaen, _Atto_. Look at his hair!”

“He has duped you, _anelya_. _Fair-haired sons_ , said the Lord of the Fountain. This is he.”

As this exchange was taking place, Gimli was asking his friend in Westron. “We are not actually going to fight these elves, are we?”

“We could easily take them on, but it would be an entirely wrong thing to do,” replied Legolas.

The dwarf looked mildly disappointed. “Can you understand any of their nattering?”

“A little. It is not good. Arman is in a lot of trouble.”

“Well, the lass seems to have come to her senses, and mayhap she has an idea where he might be. I’ll distract them. You talk to her.” The dwarf lowered his axe, and stepped forward with a hand raised in peace. “Good fellows!” he said in his best Sindarin. “Great misunderstanding here. War of the Ring. Ennor. You heard? Fellowship of Ring. Him Legolas, and me Gimli. Dwarf at your service.” He bowed and his magnificent beard swept the cobblestones.

 _“My_ name is Legolas, Master Dwarf,” said one of Galdor’s men skeptically. “And all the lays of the War of the Ring that I have ever heard recount that the Legolas of the Fellowship is of the Silvan folk—and not one ever described him as a blond!”

Legolas had in the meantime leaned close to Nárriel and whispered quickly in Sindarin, “Maiden, if you know where he is, I pray you, tell me now.”

She gave him a suspicious sidelong glance. “How do I know to trust you?”

“You cannot _know_. Either you do, or do not. I am Legolas Thranduilion and my friend’s name is Arman. Will you trust me?”

“I have done too much trusting, these past few years and past few days.”

Legolas sighed. “Very well.” Sheathing his knife, he walked forward, and opened his palms towards the men of the Tree. “I surrender, good people,” said he in Sindarin. “I am he whom you seek. I surrender.”

“Elf, have you taken leave of your senses?” roared Gimli in Westron.

“If I cannot find Arman, at least I might by this means give him a better chance to escape,” replied Legolas in Westron, wincing as Legolas of the Tree bound his hands tightly before him. “They will not search for one they have already found.”

“Ho! Any who tries to bind me shall lose a hand!” declared Gimli, brandishing his axe at the two elves approaching him with rope.

“Let the dwarf be,” commanded Galdor. In Sindarin, he spoke to Gimli. “Lay down the axe, Master Dwarf, and you shall walk unbound with us to the King’s House.”

“My friend unbound too,” insisted the dwarf, glaring at Legolas, but deciding to play along. “Relative of King, or some such, is he not?”

So Legolas and Gimli were relieved of all their weapons, and walked unfettered but flanked by the men of the Tree towards the King’s Square.

“As for you, _anelya,_ I shall deal with you later,” was her father’s curt, angry parting shot to her.

She watched till they disappeared round a bend in the street. Alone once more, she felt a deep pang of both doubt and regret at what she had just done. Turning, she walked slowly to the stables.

 

Even as he climbed the stairs towards Aryo’s chamber, Arman felt it. His twin was not there. He closed his eyes and tried to feel Aryo through their link. Nothing. He walked down a long, broad hallway, softly lit by the stars that shone through the arched windows running down its length on one side, and tried to get some sense of where his twin was… yes, he was still somewhere within the House of the Hammer… but then a hard voice rang out behind him.

“ _Aiya_ , Cúmaen. What is your business here?”

Arman spun around to see Rasco striding down the hallway. The Noldo’s fair face was stern, and his grey eyes glittered coldly as he eyed Arman.

“ _Aiya_ , Rasco. I come to visit my friend.” And with a quick, courteous bow towards the Son of the Hammer, Arman made to hasten on his way.

 “Oh, your _friend_.” Rasco overtook Arman and blocked his path. He raised a mocking eyebrow. “The same _friend_ who just broke Beldo’s nose, and who has now fled like a coward and a cur?”

Arman froze. “He would not do that!” _Not unless grievously provoked_. Arman’s blood ran cold…

“Would he not? Son of a traitor and a villain such as he is?”

“Watch who you call a villain!” snapped Arman, his azure eyes flashing with white fire like his father’s.

“He will not get far. My father’s men will hunt him down like the vermin he is. And you, lying little wood elf—whether you be his friend or brother or traitor’s spawn—you shall come with me.”

He lunged at Arman, but the younger elf side-stepped quickly and sent him sprawling across the polished stone floor. Rasco was not without training of his own, however, and springing back swiftly onto his feet, he hurled himself upon the more slightly-built archer and brought him down.

“Rasco! I have no wish to hurt you!” cried Arman as they wrestled.

“Try your best, wood elf!” growled Rasco. “I trained with Tulkas himself!”

As had Arman’s tutor Glorfindel. The two combatants seemed to speak the same language as they grappled and danced about each other—the blows, the throws, the holds. To Rasco’s astonishment, he found his attacks countered with astonishing ease, submission holds evaded or escaped time and again. Finally, Arman slipped like an eel out of Rasco’s grasp and rolled to his feet.

“You’re good,” conceded Arman. But he was getting worried. He had never been bested in unarmed combat by anyone but his father and brother, but that had been in Ennor. Furthermore, his father _always_ bested him, and Aryo beat him much of the time. It was bows and knives Arman excelled at, not this sport. His advantage was lightness and speed, but Rasco, like Aryo, was heavier and stronger than he. And unlike Aryo, Rasco was older, and a more experienced fighter. Arman guessed he had a history of tournaments in Eldamar. The Son of the Hammer studied his opponent well, and was—Arman could already tell—a fast learner. The same moves were not likely to work a second time against him. The longer Arman fought him, the more likely he would lose. And this was wasting time. Precious time. He should already be on his way to the Eagle Stone.

“You’re not too bad,” admitted Rasco with grudging respect. “But this is not over yet!” The Son of the Hammer lunged once again.

 _I don’t have time for any more of this!_ Arman vaulted onto a balustrade, used the intricate carvings in the masonry to climb up the exterior wall of the building, and in a moment he was on the roof.

Rasco cursed as he landed on air, and sprang after his prey, climbing with as much agility up the side of the building. Arman was lighter and quicker, but Rasco knew these buildings and this maze of roofs, gables, towers and parapets like the back of his hand. Easily, then, did he go around by another way to ambush the younger _n_ _ér_ , and as Arman sought to climb over a parapet, Rasco hurled himself upon him from the top of a nearby gable, and grappling with each other, the two slid down towards the edge of the roof.

Down below in a courtyard, Nerdanel was speaking to two unexpected guests by a fountain. Eneldur hovered behind her, looking about nervously. She turned her head to him. “Be at ease,” she said to the once-Mole. “You are under my protection. I will not let any take you.”

“You are kind, _herinya_.” Her two guests made Eneldur nervous, for they were great among the _quendi_ , he knew. Simple as their travel raiment was, he could feel their power. 

“…so he has gone to the King?” said the dark-haired lord to Nerdanel. “That was well-done of him. I thank you, _Haruni_ Nerdanel.”

“It was my pleasure. He has given me a jewel beyond price. He has given me the first news of Makalaurë in six millennia.”

The dark-haired lord smiled and clasped her hand. “My _Atar_ will return one day, _haruni_. My hope endures.” He turned to his hooded companion, who had been examining the buildings around. “That is one twin accounted for.”

“And there is the other,” said Galadriel, raising a hand to point at a point high above them. Four pairs of elven eyes lifted to stare at two tiny figures on the rooftops.

“Eru have mercy,” breathed Nerdanel, turning pale. “That is Rasco.”

“And his opponent is Arman,” said Galadriel.  

“ _Haruni_ , how might we get up there?” asked Elrond.

“This way. Quickly.”

They ran into a stairwell, and after a breathless climb of many flights, finally burst out upon the roof.

But by then, the combatants had vanished.

 

The King of Alcarinos stared at the pale-haired _ellon_ and the white-bearded dwarf that Galdor led into the Hall of Private Audience.

“Legolas Thranduilion? Gimli Gloinion?” said Turgon with a frown. “What is this, Galdor?”

“Nay, this is the son of the traitor. By his own confession.”

 _By his own confession?_ Turgon quirked an eyebrow sharply and stared piercingly at the pale-haired prince. “And is the dwarf a son of the traitor too?”

The Lord of the Tree wilted a little under the King’s withering tone. “He did name himself Gimli of the Fellowship of the Ring—”

“— _of course_ he is Master Gimli, there being not another dwarf in all the Blessed Realm.”

“—yes, _aranya_. But how Master Gimli came to be in the company of the traitor’s son, we do not yet understand.”

“This is Legolas Thranduilion. I could swear—” Turgon was still staring penetratingly at Legolas, who stood much at ease with his hands lightly clasped behind his back, listening with calm interest to the flurry of Quenya. The son of Thranduil returned Turgon’s gaze solemnly. The King looked perplexed. “Strange. Very strange. You look just as he did, yet you appear older than I remember Legolas Thranduilion to be. And you are older than the son of Lómion could be.”

Legolas roughly understood Turgon was saying. Enough to bow, lay a graceful hand across his chest, and reply in his best attempt at a Quenya accent, “Arman Laurefindilion, _Aran.”_

Duilin at that moment came running into the hall, having been apprised that his Swallow had been taken into custody. He walked up to Legolas, peered intently at him, then pronounced, “This is not he.”

“Do not be misled by the hair, Swallow,” said Galdor. “This is his hair’s true colour.”

“His hair could be purple or blue for all I care, Tree. I know my men, and I know the boy who served in my elite squad this past week. This is not he. This _n_ _ér_ looks almost like him, but he is not less than a _y_ _én_ old.”

Galdor was beginning to look doubtful. “He and the dwarf did insist, initially, that he was Legolas of the Company of the Ring.”

“Yet now he declares that he is Laurefindil’s son.” Turgon looked speculatively at the woodland prince, and Legolas looked back, wide-eyed and solemn. “Tell me, Arman Laurefindilion,” said Turgon in Quenya, “with what objective came you and your brother to this kingdom?”

Legolas understood so little of what the King had said that he decided it was best to simply smile enigmatically, and sagely utter the only word he had caught. “Ah… my brother.”

“Yes, your brother. Why are you two here?”

Legolas understood this clearly but had no idea how to reply in Quenya. Looking profoundly ruminative, he knit his brows and repeated, “You two here?”

Turgon looked at the woodland prince in exasperation, then raised an eyebrow at Galdor. “My lord Tree, did you hit him on the head before you brought him in?”

Legolas bestowed upon them an innocent smile.

 

It was going very much as Arman had feared it would.

He had managed to slip out of Rasco’s grip once, then raced away across the roofs, trusting to his speed to outrun his foe. Deep in his _f_ _ëa_ as he sought his twin, he sensed vaguely where he was. So Arman ran away from the House of the Hammer, across the linked roofs, across parapets and high arches and air-bridges. Over the Houses of the Pillar and the Snow, over the House of the Swallow. Far in the distance, he saw the Temple and the King’s House. That was where he needed to go, he knew, but he did not even want to think, right now, what Aryo might be doing at the King’s House, nor what he himself would do once he got there.

Next in his path was the House of the Heavenly Arch. Ahead of him, as the sky in the east lightened, Arman saw the Pyromaster of Alcarinos standing still at the highest point of the House of the Heavenly Arch, a lithe figure in long, swirling, dark robes, his copper-coloured hair flowing in the wind. His long, slender hands were raised before him, preparing a late offering of fire to be sent up into the sky.

Then Rasco had shouted out in a ringing voice, “Curunáro! Curunáro! Stop him! Stop the villain!”

Recognizing the Son of the Hammer, but not the one who fled from him, the Pyromaster had in one graceful move spun about and flung a small projectile at the young _ellon_ running towards him. Across the rooftops it had streaked, flaming, and finally exploded to Arman’s left in a beautiful firebird, long plumed tail streaming, wings outstretched, crested head arched. The fire did not burn or touch Arman, but it sent a shock that threw him to the side, and with a cry the younger twin had fallen hard upon the roof tiles and slid down perilously towards its edge. Even as he tried to scramble back to his feet, Rasco was upon him, and before long had him in a fairly excruciating submission hold. Arman’s head dangled over the edge of the roof, and he gazed down at the river and the city streets far below.

“Confess it, _C_ _úmaen_ —what is your real name?” Rasco tightened his arm against Arman’s throat.

Arman managed to gasp through the suffocating chokehold, “Tell you… if you ask more graciously.”

“Not that your _name_ signifies anything. _What_ you are, villain, everyone will know now. Lying scum. Ha! if you have ever even set foot in Alalminórë, I’ll eat my hunting horn.”

Arman thought of Nárriel, waiting for him half a city away, and what she would think of him if he never showed up. “My brother and I… leave city… never return. Let me go.”

“Let you go?” Rasco laughed. “Oh, no. I have you right where I want you. And I’m going to drag you before the King, and I am going to drag you before Nárriel. And you are going to confess to her the traitor’s spawn that you are—”

“—she knows. Told her.” Arman was close to blacking out.

“Oh, _did_ you? You _told_ her, did you, that you are the son of Lómion the Traitor? The son of the ally of Moringotto, most evil of the _quendi_ ever to draw breath? What _then_ did she say?”

“Let him go, Lord Rasco,” said a soft voice. “Please.”

They both turned their heads.

Curunáro the Pyromaster was standing a short distance away from them, copper hair and dark robes whipped by the wind. His dark amber eyes were flickering with flame, and in his long, slender hands he held a small object, shaped rather like an oversized, bronze arrowhead. His last firework of the night.

And too late Rasco remembered something about Curunáro. As the small missile launched towards him he remembered it. As it exploded in a lovely shower of golden flowers before his eyes and all went white, it went through his mind.

_Curunáro of the House of the Mole._

 

Rog strode into the hall and announced, “ _Aranya,_ there is one who seeks an audience with you.”

“Not now, Rauco,” said Turgon wearily.

“ _Aranya_ , this one you want to see.”

“And what by Mahal’s hammer did he just say?” muttered thoroughly exasperated Gimli at Legolas’ elbow.

A young _ellon_ walked in at Ecthelion’s side. Hair golden as the sun flowed down his back, still damp from its recent wash. Only if one looked closely could a number of strands and locks still be seen to be a dirty brown. No one had stopped Aryo as he walked calmly through the streets, past the fountain on the King’s Square, and up the steps of the palace. So rare was his shade of gold that many had stopped to stare at the bright, rich golden tresses of the Houses of Ingwë and Finarfin—and of the lost Lord of the Golden Flower.

Gimli and Legolas stared in shock at the elder twin, and Aryo stared back.

“Gimli! Legolas! What in Eä are you doing here?” demanded Aryo in Westron.

“Looking for you and Arman,” replied Legolas in Westron.

“Mahal’s beard, boy, why are _you_ here? We are trying to get you two back home before you get into a mess!”

“A little late for that. Did you tell anyone else we were here?”

“Er… yes.” Gimli looked sheepish. “But not your parents, as you made me promise.”

“They think I am Arman,” said Legolas, with a nod towards Turgon and his lords. “At least, I told them I was.”

“What would possess you to do that?!”

“I hoped it would buy Arman time to get away. But with _you_ here, there is not much point in continuing this charade, is there?”

The King and the four Lords listened to the slew of Westron, completely befuddled.

“He simply walked right up to the palace,” said Ecthelion to the King. “This is the elder son, their firstborn.”

In a ringing voice, Turgon spoke to Aryo. “Come forward, Aros!” And as the young _ellon_ approached, the King said, “Tell us your true name.”

“I am Arinnáro Laurefindilion,” Aryo said calmly in fluent Quenya as he fell to one knee before the throne, “and I humbly plead for mercy from the King my _nostari_ once served.”

“So I now have before me the two sons of Laurefindil and Lómion.”

Aryo turned to look at the woodland prince. “This is not my brother. This is Legolas Thranduilion.”

“I can affirm that, _aranya_ ,” said Ecthelion.

“Me— _not_ Arman. Me Legolas,” agreed the son of Thranduil with a dazzling smile.

“Just as I said, _aranya!”_ said Duilin.

“Where the hell is the real Arman then?” cried Galdor in exasperation.

“Where is your brother?” demanded Turgon of Aryo.

“ _Aran_ , I wish I knew. I have not seen him since sunset. But I have come here of my own accord to seek forgiveness and clemency for striking Beldo of the Hammer. I deeply regret his hurt.”

“And why did you strike him, Arinnáro Laurefindilion?”

“ _Aran_ , he did insult my _Amil_. It was wrong of me. Forgive me.”

“You may say it to Beldo yourself in a while. What was your purpose in coming to this city?”

Aryo sighed and suddenly looked very young. “All our lives, even before we could walk, our _nostari_ told us tales of Ondolindë—”

“—and how one of them destroyed it?” Galdor cut in.

“Tree,” Turgon said warningly, and quelled Galdor with a glance. “Pray continue, Arinnáro.”

“And since our coming to Aman, we have heard many reports of Alcarinos and its brightness and beauty. We wished to behold it for ourselves, even if but for a few days. Our _nostari_ knew naught of our coming hence. They would have forbidden it—”

“They most certainly would have,” said a well-loved voice from the door. “You are in for the most fearsome tongue lashing from your mother once you return home.”

At the door stood the Crown Prince and Princess of the Noldor. They were dressed all in white, their light-grey travelling cloaks still about their shoulders. Their golden hair, hers pale and his deep and rich, shone in the dimly lit hall, and when they smiled and approached the throne, they seemed to usher in a summer morning.

 _“Tyenyar,”_ said Turgon, stunned, rising to his feet. “What an unexpected pleasure.”

“ _Aiya_ Turno,” replied Finrod with a graceful nod of his head as he and Amárië walked towards them. They greeted each of the four lords as they passed them, holding Ecthelion’s gaze a little longer.

Aryo rose from his knees, his fair face blank with shock. “Uh—C-cundu Findaráto—Cunduvessë Amárië,” he began to stammer.

And Finrod and Amárië wrapped Aryo in a wordless hug before moving forward to embrace Turgon.

Turgon looked at his cousin and the young great-nephew before him. Saw not only golden hair of the same shade, but eyes the same shade of grey—the deep grey of slate, or a stormy sky.

“My lords,” he said to others present, “allow me some time alone with my kin. Close the doors as you leave. None are to enter.” As Aryo made to leave, Turgon said, “Great-nephew. Stay.”

Once the doors were shut, Finrod said to Turgon, “Elemmakil told us the whole story as we rode in. Guards at the passes, Turno, for two young harmless _n_ _éri?_ ”

“Not entirely harmless,” said Turgon. “Arinnáro here almost broke a man’s nose.”

Finrod raised an eyebrow at the young _ellon_. “ _Indyonya_ ,” he said, “Is this true?”

“Ingo—is this your _indyo?_ ” Turgon asked Finrod, as Aryo hung his golden head in shame.

“ _N_ _á_ ,” said Finrod as though his cousin had asked him if he had already supped.

“So you are the father of…”

“Of Laurefindil? _Ná.”_

“And who is his mother?”

And even as Finrod opened his mouth to reply, Amárië’s musical voice cut in. “ _Nany_ _ë._ I am.” The Vanya, her hand on Aryo’s shoulder, spoke matter-of-factly, her voice calm and level.

Turgon stared at his cousin’s sweet consort in absolute astonishment. “That is impossible.” The physical resemblance was there, thought Turgon. Those azure eyes. But… “Amárië, you were not even _there_ —”

“It is a long story, Turno. We shall tell it someday,” said Finrod. “For now, allow me to assure you that there is naught to fear from my law-daughter, your niece. I have spent much time in her company over the past five _coran_ _ári_ , and if there was any whiff of Sauron about her, I assure you I would have known it from a league away.” 

“That is reassuring, Ingo,” said Turgon. “As reassuring as the word sent from the Elder King.”

Finrod gently quirked an eyebrow at his cousin. “So… you have had word already from Manwë. Why then are Elemmakil and his guards at the pass, and why this interrogation of my grandson?”

“You have no idea how eventful a night it has been, Ingo. Elemmakil and his men should be receiving the word to stand down right about now. And Arinnáro was explaining to me why he and his brother have been lurking in my city under false identities and with false hair.”

“Dyed hair,” said Aryo, looking abashed.

For the first time, Turgon looked upon the young _ellon_ with a kindly eye. “I suppose, now all is clear as daylight, that you and your brother could remain here in this palace with your grandfather as my guests—if you so wish.”

Aryo looked at Finrod uncertainly. His grandfather beamed at him, and the grandson’s face lit with a smile. “ _Hantanyel_ , Aran Turukáno. But I believe it would be best if we returned to our parents—”

Excited shouts rose suddenly from the square outside, in both Sindarin and Quenya. And turning their heads as one, they went to the windows of the hall, and lifted their faces to the sky.

 

Nárriel paced about by the Eagle Stone. The three horses grazed quietly nearby, and nibbled at fallen fruit from the trees of the orchard.

Her eye fell upon Arman’s pack. She knew she should not—but Rasco’s ringing accusations were in her mind. _No one in their right mind would claim to be the son of a traitor were it untrue_ , she thought. _And he confessed it to me—confessed it even though he feared I would hate him. How far would I have to go to find a heart truer than this?_ Still, were there any other unpleasant revelations in store? She was planning to defy her father and help this _ellon_ and his brother escape the city. She had to be _sure_ she was not aiding a villain. She reached out her hand to the bag…

Then withdrew it. No. She would not look through his bag. _Call me a fool. I will trust him._

As she straightened, feeling a sense of triumph at her resolve, the horses began to snort and neigh excitedly. She looked up, and her green eyes widened.

 

Rasco regained consciousness to hear a musical murmur of voices, to see his mother’s face bent over him, lit with the early morning sun, and to find his head on her lap. He frowned, then suddenly sat bolt upright. “Where is he? The scum! the villain!”

“Shh… _yonya_.” Nerdanel shook her head, and looked to her right.

Rasco turned his head. On the roof behind him sat a group of five elves, talking intently. The traitor’s son, the turncoat Curunáro and Istarnië’s new apprentice—another former Mole, damn them all—and with them, a lord and a lady.

Elrond, the grandson of the King, Rasco recognized, for the lord had visited Nerdanel more than once. He was talking softly to the traitor’s son, and seemed to be tending his hurts.

The lady he had not seen before. When she turned her head and her piercing grey eyes looked into his, eyes more brilliant than his mother’s with the Light of the Trees, he felt a shock run through him. Pale was the sky over the eastern mountains, and the sun had not yet risen. The sunlight he had seen on his mother’s face, that illuminated this place, was the sun of her radiant hair, showing beneath her hood.

“Artanis, this is my son, Rasco,” said Nerdanel.

The daughter of the High King. She smiled at him, and Rasco thought he had never seen so much beauty before, and he had thought the Queen and Princess Itarillë lovely. He thought he should arise and sweep her a bow, but his body was too heavy and his head ached. He wanted to warn them against the traitor’s son, to expose his perfidy, but one look in those brilliant grey eyes and it all melted away.

“You awaken in time, Rasco,” said Princess Artanis.

“In time for what, _herinya?”_

Her eyes lifted to the skies. “For that.”

 

The King of the Eagles lived on Taniquetil with the Elder King. He was not a rare sight in Aman, for oft could he be seen winging high above, at heights where the air was too thin almost for life.

Rarely did the majestic bird ever descend upon Eldamar, for it was in the vast plains south that he chose to hunt. And even more rarely did he visit the cities of the Eldar. Yet here he was, making great circles over Alcarinos. As he descended, the vast breadth of his wings, thirty fathoms wide, took away the breath of the people, even though there were many enough who had seen him close before.

 _“Alae! Thorondor! Thorondor!”_ some cried in Sindarin, and _“Ela! Sorontar! Sorontar!”_ others shouted in Quenya.

They watched, mesmerized, as a figure on his back became clear—Eonwë, greatest of arms in Arda, Herald of the Elder King.

Aryo was broken out of his trance by a voice in his ear as he gazed out of the window of the Hall of Private Audience. He followed his grandfather out of the hall and down the palace hallways, and out the great doors as the first light of morning broke over the mountains, just as the great eagle landed in the King’s Square.  

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Indyonya [Q] – my grandchild. (I think it could be elided to _indya_ , which I used in an earlier chapter, but I think this longer form should be acceptable too. Same for _pityonya_ and _pitya_ , _yondonya_ and _yonya_. I didn’t want to use Noldorin Quenya _inyo_ as _inyonya_ sounded strange to my ear and _inya_ means “female”)

Mairos [gnomish] – mane

Nostari [Q] – parents

Tyenyar [Q] – dear kinsmen

 

* * *

_It’s been terribly busy. Writing this chapter took a long time as I was trying not to rush it, and I’m not sure I’m happy with it. But I really wanted to get it out. Hope I didn’t make too many typos._

_I wondered as I wrote this whether cities in Eldamar should have gates. No enemy kingdoms, no wars, no plagues, no roving bandits… I saw no reason why they should need them. But still, Tolkien’s description of Tirion states clearly that it has a gate, so perhaps the elves wrought them as pretty architectural features more than anything else. But it made so little sense to me that I did not give Alcarinos any gates—hence the guards at mountain passes._

_As in most examples of language acquisition, Legolas understands more Quenya than he is able to produce, just as Gimli understands Sindarin better than he can speak it._

_Nicknames in Quenya – Arak_ _áno’s nickname could be Aro or Arvo but I decided to make his nickname within the family Arno purely to harmonize with his brothers (Finno and Turno). I had N_ _árriel nickname him Aryo just to create the confusion with Arinn_ _áro’s nickname._

 


	45. The Summons

The first two days of our journey home are silent.

My first foray to the outskirts of Eldamar in five years has unsettled me… that glimpse of the Halls of Aulë from afar, mocking me with something both my firstborn and I yearn for but can never have… the unexpected appearance of the elves of Eldamar triggering our sudden and hasty flight back into the forest. We had hoped to enjoy at least another day in the company of dear friends not seen since our arrival at Avallonë.

But this is our life now. A life of hiding, ever fearing discovery, and it has hit home now as never before. As we canter south through the woods, I am more sour and bad-tempered than I have been in a century. “Oh, stuff it,” I snap, when Laurefindil suggests we could invite our friends from Ennor to our lakeside home. The thought of all of them having to make a journey of five hundred leagues from Avallonë and through the wilderness for our sakes somehow makes it even worse.

Laurefindil understands. Unperturbed by my foul mood, he rides peacefully at my side. In his place, my _Amil_ would coax then pester me to _talk about it, tell her how I feel_. He lets me be, taciturn and withdrawn as I am. I feel his comforting presence at the borders of my being, like a cloak resting on the shoulders. We have talked of this matter often enough before. He knows there is naught else to be said.

On the morning of the third day, he senses the worst is over and begins to sing—his way of saying, _Come now, love—enough brooding—time for joy again!_ The beauty of his voice harmonises with the birdsong that awakens the forest. In the canopy above, faint celestial voices chime in melodiously, for the forest is full of maiar great and small, mighty and lowly. Finding a minor maia lurking in every other tree and rock and stream and flower had at first disturbed me greatly, but one soon grows habituated to it. If I do not yet see them as allies and friends as Laurefindel does, at least I no longer jump and screech a curse if a stone I am admiring begins to talk to me.

His song done, Lauro dismounts, looks at me with a smile—a wordless invitation—and begins to walk. Without a word, I slip off Gilroch and do the same. Neither we nor our horses are weary; we walk for no other reason than the sheer pleasure of it… the motion of our limbs and bodies, lithe and full of strength… the feel of moss and earth and grass beneath our light leather shoes as our feet eat the miles… the pulse of life in the forest, coursing through the earth, beating in the trees, singing in the wind and the stars and sun. Within an hour, all thoughts of Eldamar—of what I and mine are denied—fade away. Seventy leagues of forest now lie between us and the lands of the Eldar, and my _fëa_ begins to expand once more as I again rejoice in all I _do_ have—this freedom of the forest, this _nér_ at my side. My child and my mother who await us at the journey’s end, and my sons in the lands yet further south.

I find I rarely tire in Aman. Sleep is mostly for pleasure, as food is. The night country of Lórien has at last become, for me, not just a realm of rest, but of delight. Lauro and I at times awaken and smile into each other’s eyes, knowing we have dreamed the same dream—met and travelled together in that strange, wondrous terrain of Irmo’s kingdom. In our night adventures, we meet and speak to fantastic creatures, scale mountains and float down waterfalls, soar like eagles through rainbows.

As we journey south through the forest, sometimes our hands reach out to clasp, and we run. Faster and faster, till we are one with rushing wind and birdsong, one with leaves and branches, sky and shadow and sunlight, till we are heartbeat and speed and the blood rushing through our veins. Sometimes we overtake our horses as they walk, sometimes they overtake us as they break into a canter. We leap over logs, duck beneath boughs, barely marring the mossy forest floor as our feet lightly fly across it. Running can turn into dancing, and dancing back into walking, and song to silence, and silence to talk. There is a solemn and deep speculation about where the _periain_ and other _fírimar_ go when they die, and then about how we might all be reunited at the Second Music. There is merry talk of the next feast at Oromë halls; mundane talk about harvesting the silk and the honey at our home, and planting herbs. He suggests an improvement to our system of irrigation that elicits a snort of derision from me. I immediately describe an elaborate and intricate irrigation system that would put to shame anything ever devised by the House of the Tree. He raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh, come on—for our little patch of land?” But I declare loftily that it should be done just because it is amazingly brilliant and beautiful, and he cuffs my head affectionately and we both laugh. I suggest sowing some rye. He would prefer oats. We squabble a little over it, amicably, then he breaks into song again and my voice joins his as naturally as I draw breath. At moments I am so giddy with fullness and lightness of spirit that I laugh for no reason at all—just as he has always been wont to do. How I once hated him for it, in Gondolin. At such moments, I know myself truly transformed, and can no longer tell where my blackness ends and his goldenness begins.

In this manner the day and the leagues slip swiftly by. Night falls. Dappled with shadow and silver moonlight as we tread lightly over the forest floor, Asfaloth and Gilroch walking ahead of us, our auras shimmer silver and golden in the night. The stars wheel overhead. In an hour, another dawn will be upon us. We come to an exceptionally large clearing and slow to a stop. A myriad tiny golden lights flash around us, both in shadows and moonlight, and though we have seen this many times before, we are spellbound as we watch the thousands of fireflies dance about us, their lights winking in intricate patterns of gold. Our eyes meet in joy. At certain moments such as this, it is as though I am seeing him for the first time, and I am overcome with his beauty. The grace and strength of his lithe body, the glory of his golden hair, the perfection in the line of his jaw and his throat, the curve of his lips inviting kisses. I pull him to me and it is not long before I want more than kisses, but as my hands slide down his torso and feel him through his breeches, he speaks to me in thought: _“Uh uh. Not now, melmenya. We are being watched.”_

I freeze with my lips on the hollow of his throat. There must be a dozen minor maiar all about this clearing, but I know he does not mean them.

“ _He has been following us the last nine hours,”_ Lauro adds.

And through our bond, I understand who he means. I pull away hurriedly. “ _Why did you not tell me earlier?”_

_“You were in such good spirits once again. I did not wish to upset you.”_

My eyes dart over the woods surrounding us. It is true. I can sense him there now. And I had not thought it would upset me. Had thought myself at peace with him. There have been times I remember him fondly, even. I am unprepared for the surge of emotion that grips me—a surge that feels very much like anger.

“Where are you?” I call with ringing voice into the shadows alive with the sounds of night creatures. “I know you are there. Show yourself!”

And I sense it though I do not hear it. He is turning. He is running away.

“Nay!!” I cry sharply. “Come back here, damn you! Come back, you damned coward!”

A flash of gold at the corner of my eye, and I turn my head to see Laurefindil disappear into the trees. There is the sound of bodies crashing through a thicket. Even as I sprint into the woods, I hear a familiar deep voice shouting, and another crash of twigs splintering. Then a stream of curses defiles the pure air of Aman. If he was cleansed when he walked at long last out of the gates of Mandos, he is fast undoing the work of six-and-a-half millennia.

In the dim light of a thick stand of trees, my father lies face down in the undergrowth, pinned down by Laurefindil. Very much as it had been millennia ago in a throne room in Gondolin.

“He tried to hit me, _melmenya_ ,” Lauro says apologetically to me, even as my father thrashes violently and utters a flood of profanities so foul that I imagine any maiar in the vicinity must be blushing.

I realize that our horses have rushed here, drawn by the commotion. They stand some distance away to my left, peering through the trees with curious eyes, ears pricked forward.

“ _Adar!”_ I shout above the cursing. “ _Adar,_ stop that struggling. He means you no harm.”

 _“Êl síla erin lû e-govaned wîn, Adar_ of my love _,”_ Lauro says most courteously as he sits astride his law-father and holds the Moriquendë’s arms behind his back. “And may I say, _Adar,_ how good it is to have you back among the living _._ ”

“Call me that again, you _gorn_ -faced _golodh_ , you _hoithol_ whoreson, you _gwib_ -less frilly-brained flowergirl, and I will—” and my father proceeds to detail quite graphically the violent end to which Lauro’s manhood would come.

“ _Díheno nin_ , _Hîr_ Eöl,” says Lauro, quite unruffled. “I regret deeply that we started on the wrong foot. Let bygones be bygones!” Beaming sunnily, he pulls my father up, sets him on his feet, and gives him a friendly clap on the shoulder. He is half a head taller than the stockier Moriquendë—a golden creature of morning whose willowy grace always belies his strength and his power. “Please do not try to hit me again,” he says lightly, “or with all due respect, _hîr-nín,_ I will have to restrain you once more.”

I sometimes suspect that after two cosy conjugal centuries of me, Lauro is not _completely_ the paragon of virtue all think him. Behind that warm, dazzling smile and that sincere, limpid gaze, I swear there lurks a secret smirk. As I look on in silence, I become guiltily aware that I am smirking too, and I quickly wipe it from my face.

I step forward as Laurefindil attempts to brush bits of earth and vegetation from my father’s hair and clothes. With a glare and a snarling curse, the erstwhile Lord of Nan Elmoth steps away from the warrior. Then his dark head turns towards me.

Suddenly I am nervous. My palms are clammy. “ _Adar-nín,”_ I say coolly, with a calm I do not feel.

My father wears a light-grey hooded robe of fine linen and leather sandals—a far cry from the dark colours and leathers and boots he had always worn in a first life. It must be the standard garb the Rebodied are issued with ere they set forth from the Gates of Mandos. Apart from that, he looks just the same. Black hair falling in strong, dark waves to his waist. Black eyes smouldering. Pengolodh unjustly described him as stooped. Lauro and Rauco had cracked a couple of ribs and wrenched a shoulder bringing him down in the throne room. He went to his death at Caragdûr bowed with pain. He stands straight and proud before me now, still powerfully built, a virile, handsome specimen of manhood if ever there was one, even if his shoulders and arms have lost some of the muscular bulk once gained through a millennium of smithing. His face, though not grim and shadowed as before, is yet set in stern lines. His bronzed skin glows in the shadows.

How I had loathed my pale, sickly complexion as a child, and yearned for the dusky tones of my Avarin father and his tribe… yearned to belong. I never did. As I came of age, I embraced my Noldorin heritage with a vengeance. I was better than these barbarians. I was born to great things and a wider world…

I wonder how I look to him. I happen to be wearing white, as Lauro is. One of my mother’s riding dresses. She oft braids her hair when she rides, but mine falls loose to my hips. His eyes take me in from my head to my toes. He avoids looking at my chest.

One marked difference I note in my father now. Despite the scowl on his face, he looks… sheepish. Shamefaced.

It is not only my chest his gaze avoids. He cannot meet my eyes.

The last time in life I had seen him was when he had been cast off the Caragdûr. The last words I had uttered to him in life had been the slew of profanities I spat at him as I held my wounded mother in my arms. A moment before, his eyes had met mine in murderous hatred, and he had hurled a poisoned javelin at my heart.

The tentative step we had taken towards reconciliation whilst in Mandos had only affirmed one thing to me—his pride that he had… a son. How bitter must be his disappointment with the creature that stands before him now. I wonder that he did not curse Námo when the vala broke the news to him. That might have gotten him another century in Mandos.

“Know you not who I am, _Adar?”_

“Am I a father? Have I a child?” he says gruffly, arms folded across his chest, eyes on the thicket at my right shoulder. “I had a son, once. He cursed and disowned and forsook me.”

“I had a father, once,” I say coldly. “He sought to kill me, but killed my mother.”

“Long, long ago in another world, and in another life,” says Laurefindil soothingly to us both. “Have we not all passed through the Halls of Mandos, and the slate been wiped clean? _Meleth-nín,_ have you naught else to say to your _Adar?”_ And he looks at me meaningfully, eyebrow lifted. _You spoke to me of this before. Remember?_

 _Sod off._ I glare at him.

“Maeglin has aught to say to you, _Hîr_ Eöl,” says my beloved to my father.

“Shut up, Lauro! Stay out of this!”

“You married _this?”_ says my father, jerking his head in Laurefindil’s direction, his mouth sneering.

At that I explode. “You stiff-necked arrogant _gwib!_ Why did I imagine that you would have changed? Yes, I married him. A far better choice than that my _mother_ made _.”_

“Your mother… how is she?” he mutters stiffly.

“She is well,” I say curtly.

“She misses you, _Hîr_ Eöl,” adds Lauro.

“You have such a great look of her,” says my father to me, awkwardly, ignoring the _golodh_.

“I always did.” My anger is ebbing away.

Nine hours my father followed us through the forest. Listened to our laughter and song. Witnessed the bond we have, even in silence, even when we do not touch. Did he think of the days he walked with my mother in starlight, hand in hand? Did he wonder how it all degenerated into anger and hurt and violence? Or did he merely wish to see with his own eyes the thing his son had become, to sneer at the weak, soft thing I now was?

“Why were you hiding and spying on us?” I demand.

My father pulls himself up proudly and looks down at me, his hooded eyes somewhere at the level of my chin. “I learned you were wed. I wished to see if all be well with you.”

“It is well,” I reply shortly.

“So it would seem.” Eöl gives his glowing, golden law-son a dubious glance. _No accounting for taste._ Lauro inclines his head towards my father respectfully. My father looks back at me. “ _Cuio vê._ ” He straightens his robe, awry from the tussle with Lauro. “I shall be on my way.”

“No!” I block his way as he turns to leave. “Where do you think to go?”

“Anywhere. South. Away from the accursed _golodhrim_ and Sindar.”

“What of my mother?”

He shrugs, a pretence of indifference. “Tell her she has her freedom. Send my regards.”

“She is waiting for you,” I say sharply. “She never gives up hope of your return. She refuses to even leave this forest lest you return whilst she be away. She looks for you _every day._ ”

Lauro gently lays a hand on my shoulder and speaks to his law-father. “ _Hîr_ Eöl, _Hiril_ Aredhel has built her home on a site with vast trees, by a pool that reminds her of Gladuial.” It was little over an hour’s ride from our home. “She has even had a forge built for you—”

There is a strange expression on my father’s face. “She has?”

“Yes, _Hîr_ Eöl. It is almost ready. Maeglin and Aredhel work still on it.”

“We have spent the last four sodding years preparing the damned place for you,” I growl. “But you don’t give a _gorn_ , do you?”

My father is silent. But there is a softness in his gaze that I have hardly ever seen before.

Lauro points at the stars glimmering through the spreading branches of the trees around us, unperturbed at being cold-shouldered. “Two hundred and eighty leagues south and east lies her home—there where lies Wilwarin—where the leftmost star of _Gwilwileth_ now dips over that hill.”

My father acknowledges his words by turning his head to look at the stars. His eyes rest on the glittering butterfly of the heavens and the tip of its wing, then on the lands that lie below it.

“Journey with us, _Hîr_ Eöl,” says Lauro.

My father looks from me to Lauro, and back to me, his face inscrutable. His eyes meet mine at last, briefly, before looking away.

“Why would he wish to journey with us?” I say rather sharply to Lauro, my eyes still on my father. To the Moriquendë I speak in a level but steely voice, “I know what you are thinking: _I want no daughter. You have naught to do with me.”_

“Those are not my thoughts,” he mutters gruffly. “Do not presume to know my thoughts.”

“You told Emel the night you conceived me you were glad it was a son. You had no use for a girl.”

“I did!” he barks angrily. “Because I did not yet have a daughter!”

Our eyes hold in the silence that follows. I feel Lauro in my mind, urging me. _Go on, tell him—‘Forgive me, Adar—and I forgive you’. Go on. You have been waiting to do this for years._

My father clears his throat. “ _Iell…_ ” he begins, awkwardly, gruffly. “Daughter…”

Then there is a roaring sound, and the forest is illuminated with white light, and a being with flaming hair and eyes leaps down from the trees above into our midst, crackling with raw power.

 _“Eruchîn,_ ” says the Herald of Manwë in his resonant voice, speaking in Sindarin for the first time in the few years I have known him. “Children of the One, his peace be with you.”

If my father is overawed or petrified, he does not show it. Lauro and I bow. “Peace with you, _Hîr_ Eonwë,” we say almost in unison, likewise speaking Sindarin for the sake of my father.

“A summons, _Eruchîn,”_ says the Herald. “Come with me. The time of secrets is past. What was hidden is now known.”

Lauro and I exchange a look. We know Ecthelion should be back in New Ondolindë by now. It does not surprise us that he has had to tell our story and reveal all.

“Come? Where to, _Hîr?_ ” asks Lauro.

“Is there not all the more reason for us to remain hidden here now?” I add.

“It is time, child, to be justified before the rest of the children, those whom you knew in the former life,” says the Herald to me. “Come with me to the shining city, to Alcarinos the Fair.”

 _No. Absolutely not. Are you insane??_ I want to shriek at the maia. “ _That_ is the last place in Arda I would _ever_ wish to go to. Forgive me, _Hîr_. I decline.”

“Your presence is required. Your sons went there in disguise, but their identities are now exposed. And,” the maia adds calmly, “one is this very moment a fugitive at large within the city, the other taken into custody by Turgon.”

 _“What?!”_ sputters Lauro, stupefied, even as I am stunned into silence and probably blanch as white as my riding dress.

My father asks, “How many grandsons have I?”

“Two,” answers Lauro. “And a granddaughter.”

I at last find my voice. “ _Hîr_ Eonwë, how could this be? Our sons are far south.”

“They _lied_ to us! _”_ My beloved is stunned. “They were disguised? What manner of disguise?”

“How could they do this?” I cry, aghast. “Have they no _brains?”_

Behind me, my _Adar_ is darkly muttering something about lack of brains being a _golodhrin_ trait, about retribution for lying to your father and leaving home against his wishes, and about the evil fates that befall those who go the cities of the _golodhrim_. I ignore him.

Lauro says, “I alone shall come with you, O Eonwë, and bring my sons home.”

“I am under orders, young one. Both the Lords of the Golden Flower and the Mole am I asked to bring thence, and with both the Flower and the Mole shall I leave this place.” He speaks placidly, with no hint of threat or intimidation. But there is no question that he will do it, whether we say ay or nay.

“Very well. Let us go, then.” I have a week to think, then. A week on the ride north to gird myself like a warrior, and prepare for the dreaded event.

The maia smiles, like a flash of lightning. “We depart now. Come, _Eruchîn_.”

There is a huge rushing wind that sends our hair streaming and leaves flying from the trees. My skirts swirl wildly, and I reach out to steady myself against Lauro. The horses neigh and rear a little. Then through the trees I see a large hill with wings land in the clearing Lauro and I had kissed in not long ago. The earth shakes.

Sorontar the Great lowers his head and peers through the trees, fixing me and Laurefindil with a golden eye the size of a large plate. Hammer of Aulë, I had forgotten how huge he was.

I shrink back against Lauro’s chest, and my stomach lurches. _“Fly?”_ I gasp weakly.

I had thought my fear of heights a thing of the past. But it is one thing to climb up and down a mallorn, one thing to fly in one’s dreams, and quite another to get on an eagle the size of Vingilótë in real life and fly so high that the clouds crawl below like tiny sheep. To my beloved’s mind I am shouting, “ _The LAST thing in Arda I ever want to do is FLY. I am NOT flying with any sodding eagle!!”_

_“I have done this in days of yore, melimë. There is naught to fear.”_

_“You were DEAD!!”_

_“Nay, I mean I flew once on Sorontar here in Aman, after my re-housing. I guess he was making up to me for not catching me at the Cristhorn.”_

“Eöl of Nan Elmoth, you mayst ride with us if you so choose,” the mighty Herald is saying graciously to my father.

“I choose not,” my father replies shortly. The expression on his face says it all: _Absolutely hoithol not, you hoithol maia_. Given that we all fell to our deaths in our first lives, it seems to me that of the three of us only Laurefindil is not in his right mind.

 _“Melmenya,”_ Laurefindil is saying to reassure me _, “so broad is Sorontar’s back that you will not even be able to see the earth below!”_

_“That is the very thing—if we may not even straddle his back, what grip do we have?—what if we slide off?”_

_“We could lie on our fronts and hold on to his feathers.”_

I have no idea if eagles can read minds, but the King of Eagles now says in a thunderous voice, “ _I shall not let you fall, little she-elf.”_

“What if we slip off?”

_“Then I shall catch you.”_

Thus speaks the bird who did not save my beloved from plummeting to his death.

“I ride with you, and I shall not let you fall off, Lómiel Eöliel,” says the Herald of Manwë. “Let us away.”

“But Asfaloth and Gilroch—”

“—shall lead your father to your mother’s home,” says Laurefindel. And the horses neigh an assent.

My eyes meet my father’s. “Gilroch shall bear you, _Adar._ ”

My father is eyeing Sorontar rather nervously. “Are you travelling on that bird, _Iell?_ Are you mad?”

“In case you have not noticed, I have no choice. _Novaer, Adar-nín.”_

From his gloomy expression, I can tell that he thinks I am on a course back to Mandos. “ _Galu, Iell-nín_ ,” is all he says.

“I am going to need it,” I mutter, as we set foot into the clearing and Sorontar lowers his great head and neck to us.

Eonwë grows to four times his height and picks up Lauro and me as though we are kittens. As he climbs onto the eagle’s back, he says, “Fear not. ’Twill be a flight of mere minutes.”

 _Minutes?_ My mind spins with an indescribable horror. A millennium would not be enough to prepare for such a meeting. And the Ainur give me minutes _. More time, I need more time!_

 _Perhaps the less time you have to think of it, the better_ , _vesseya_ , says my beloved.

Eonwë seats himself on Sorontar’s back, at the base of the eagle’s great neck, and places us between his thighs. As Thorondor unfurls his wings, thirty fathoms wide, the Herald encircles us gently with his now-huge hands. Lauro holds me close to him, and I squeeze my eyes tight. I feel the force of the eagle’s upwards thrust as he launches us up into the sky, the wind rushing past at tremendous velocity as he powerfully cleaves through the air. How can a creature so massive be so swift? My brain is a blank of numbing fear as the wind rushes against my face. I hear Laurefindil catch his breath.

“Look, _melimë_ ,” he urges me. And he shares what he sees to my mind. “Is that not beautiful?”

I slowly open my eyes against the cold wind. Over the secure cage of Eonwë’s fingers I see the back of the eagle’s great head. Above us, the cold, bright stars are fading in the lightening sky. Around us, before us, the vast realm of Aman lies spread in all its glory. To the east, the towering Pélori mountain range, beyond it a glimpse of the infinitude of Alatairë, the Great Sea. To the west, a huge continent spreads—plains and hills and woods yet unknown to me, and distant in the west, ranges of mountains less lofty than the Pélori, blue and shadowy and mysterious in the pre-dawn light.

Lauro laughs and I am smiling, lost for a while in delight at the beauty and splendour of these far horizons, lost in the wild exhilaration of wind and speed. Too quickly the world and the minutes fly by. We swoop past Taniquetil, glide across the Calacirya, and suddenly, ahead, is a glimpse of white towers gleaming through the mountains ahead. The city’s lamps wink like myriad stars, its pearlescent stones and crystal stairs and spires shimmering softly in the night. My stomach ties itself in a knot.

“Lord Eonwë—I beg you—let us descend now—approach the city on foot,” I shout in a panic to the maia.

But already we are over the city, and I squeeze my eyes shut again, stomach lurching as the eagle falls in giddy swooping circles and descends. My head spinning, I see the city only through Laurefindel’s eyes—the banners, the glittering spires, the market square, the temple, the King’s House, the King’s Square, the Great Fountain. My ears are assailed by the cries of many voices lifted up in Quenya and Sindarin: _The eagle! The eagle! Sorontar! Thorondor!_

Sorontar lands next to the Great Fountain. There is a huge wave of murmurs and exclamations as Eonwë slides off the eagle’s back and gently sets us down. So weak are my knees that they almost buckle as I land, but Laurefindil holds me up. There is a wild turbulence in the air around us as Thorondor takes to the skies again.

Then I stare about me in a daze. How surreal it all is… it must be a dream.

The sun is rising behind the mountains east, and in the soft dawn light a figure in grey stands at the centre of the Square, hands behind his back, as though he has been awaiting us patiently for some time.

“Well met again, Glorfindel and Lómiel. And was it a pleasant flight? Journeys by eagle. Always the best way to travel.”

“Olórin! What happens next?”

“We wait. Ah, here they are.”

Before us rises a long flight of stairs to a palace—sixty glittering white stone steps broken by two landings. And running down it, five familiar figures.

 _“Atar? Milyë?”_ Lauro gasps in shock as Finrod then Amarië envelops him and me in a hug. “What are you doing here? And what are you _doing?”_ He is appalled by the very public display of affection.

“Good to see you again, _yonya,”_ says Finrod with a grin as Amarië kisses his son on the cheek.

 _“Suilad, mellyn!”_ cries Legolas cheerfully. “What an entrance!”

“Aren’t you two supposed to be in hiding?” says Gimli, huffing and puffing from the run.

And behind them all, Aryo, shamefaced, “ _Atto, Ammë…”_

“Why did you do this?—”

“ _Where_ is your _brother?_ —”

“How could you _lie_ to us?—”

 _“Nairenya…_ I am sorry…”

And we embrace our firstborn.

Then, over all their shoulders, I see the King.

My King.

Tall and majestic in his dark crimson robes, Turukáno is slowly descending the steps, the long skirt of his robe trailing behind him.

Close behind him walk all the Lords. Why are there two Penlods? Oh… the twin who died early, whom I never met. Galdor looks frighteningly grim. Ecthelion looks solemn, but as he catches my eye he smiles reassuringly.

Finrod takes me by the hand, and leads me forward as though I am a child. Laurefindil grips my other hand tightly, and the others follow close behind.

To the sides and behind us, the crowd is gathering more closely in the Square now, pressing forward for a better view. “ _The traitor...” “Golden Flower!…” “Mole…” “…they look well…” “…that is Lómion?…” “…traitor…” “…so like Írissë…” “…traitor!…”_ The murmurs, the exclamations are loud in our ears.

For the briefest moment I wonder how I look, with my wild, windblown hair, and my travel-stained clothes—my mother’s white riding dress, taken up at the hem—and my shabby, oldest boots. Are you enjoying the show, good people? What is expected of me? Should I rend my clothes? Crawl to Turukáno’s feet? Cast myself down from the King’s Tower and strike these steps thrice as I fall? Dash out my brains on these flagstones to appease you?

As we ascend the palace steps, the Herald of Manwë remains at the centre of the Square by the Fountain. He declares in a booming voice that must surely reverberate through the whole city: “ _Ela!_ Lómion Eölion is no more. In Ondolindë did the traitor die, and his transgressions with him. Let Lómiel Eöliel, she who has been sent forth from the halls of Mandos, who has been released by the grace of Eru Ilúvatar, be forgiven and received among the living.”

It is all happening so fast. Too fast. Turukáno approaches, his stern gaze piercing me. I release Finrod and Laurefindil’s hands and climb the steps by myself. _I must do this alone._

But I am not alone. I feel all of them still with me—Lauro and Finrod, Amárië and Legolas… and further away, to my great wonder, Galadriel and Elrond and Arman. Their presence and their love are warm upon my _fëa_ like sunshine. I wish it gave me enough courage and strength to meet Turukáno’s silver eyes. My gaze is fixed somewhere between the sash at the King’s waist and the embroidery on his robe’s hem.

My brain tries to scramble words together. Words... they are too little. They are too much…

I have imagined this moment now and again, over the years. What might happen if I ever face those I destroyed? What then could I possibly say? I would occasionally find myself thinking of it as I wielded my hammer at my anvil, as I held my children in my arms, as I lay against the warm curve of Laurefindil’s sleeping body in the comfort of our bed. But any of the words I crafted then are nothing now, empty of meaning as the Timeless Void.

_Against you, O King… against all the people of Ondolindë…sinned… betrayed… of all who have ever walked the earth, the most vile… most reprobate… heinous wretch… my crimes…_

The hollow fragments fall into the yawning abyss of my _fëa’s_ guilt like snowflakes into a furnace.

As I reach the first landing, I at last raise my eyes to the penetrating grey stare of the king, and transfixed by it I falter to a halt. My eyes flinch away from his, and my legs are paralyzed. We are five steps away from each other.

_… I expect no forgiveness… deserve no forgiveness… unutterable sorrow… everlasting regret…_

Words, sodding useless words. I open my mouth. My anguish and remorse grip my throat, and strangle me silent. Where is my former eloquence? One word. One word will suffice. Say it. Say it, damn you. Say it! My lips shape one word. I strain my vocal cords. But just as in dreams where my voice is stolen, not a sound comes forth.

He walks across the landing, stands an arm’s length away from me. I crane my neck to look up at him, and for another moment, our eyes lock. And suddenly it does not seem so long ago that we had stood thus before the assembled people of Gondolin, and he had declared me the Prince of his kingdom and conferred honour and authority upon me.

I fall to my knees upon the glittering white stones, less by design than that my strength deserts me. And to my utter horror, I give way to uncontrollable weeping. Not pretty tears. Hard, choking sobs that tear themselves from some deep, unexcavated place within me. Strong hands take hold of mine and raise me. My head remains bowed, my tears soak the front of a crimson damask robe. Very gingerly, the King wraps his arms about me. My head barely reaches his sternum. My salt tears ruin the silk, and my voice at last manages to choke out one word. _“Nairenya_ ,” it says. “ _Nairenya_.”

And as if in a dream, I hear his low voice murmur softly: “ _Apsenin-tyë_.”

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Apsenin-tyë [Q] – I forgive you

Cuio vê [woodelven Sindarin] – Live well

Êl síla erin lû e-govaned wîn [exilic Sindarin] – a star shines on the hour of our meeting

Eruchîn [S] – children of Eru

Gorn [Gnomish] – crap/shit

Gwib [Gnomish] – penis/prick

Hoithol – a present participle form created from Gnomish _hoitha_ , meaning “to have coitus”. You get the idea.

Iell [S] – daughter

Nairenya [Q] – I am sorry

Wilwarin/gwilwileth [Q/S] – butterfly. I visualize this as the constellation Cassiopeia.

 

* * *

_Notes_

_So there was a journey by eagle at the end and an ainu ex machina. Hey, this is a Tolkien fanfic, so why would there not be?_

_A fathom is six feet. Thorondor’s wingspan is a mind-blowing hundred and eighty feet. You and I would probably look like mice on an elephant riding him. He’s a magical bird, so yes, he can get aloft with no trouble, and yes, he is pretty swift._

_Agh, now for an epilogue. A very long epilogue. Hopefully I can get that done in a month. Earlier if work is kind._

_Thanks, all, for reading as I soldier on to the end._

 


	46. Momentous Meetings

Her emerald eyes fixed on the King of the Eagles in the sky above, the flame-haired maiden moved through the rows of peach trees, the horses close behind her. The orchard sat on a hill slope behind the House of the Tree. From it, horses and maiden watched entranced as the great bird circled lower, then vanished behind the buildings.

“Stay here!” Nárriel called over her shoulder to the horses as she ran down the slope. Her curiosity burned to know on what errand the Eagle King had come. “I shall return soon—”

And as she reached the foot of the hill, Arman burst through the back gate of the House of the Tree as though the hounds of Oromë themselves were hunting him.  “The eagle…” he managed to wheeze, for he was panting hard from his mad race down from the roof.

“Where is your brother?” she cried as she ran to his side. “Varda! What _happened_ to you?” His fair face and neck were bruised, his clothes dishevelled and torn in places, and he moved with a slight limp.

Shaking his head as if to say _, that matters not now_ , he took hold of her hand and tugged her back through the gate. She pulled him towards the stairs and they sprinted up four flights, and thence down a long hallway lined with tapestries as the voice of the Herald of Manwë reverberated through the city. At the end of the hallway were tall, arched windows which opened upon a vista of the King’s Square.

They leaned out of the window. People crowded on the bridges and along both sides of the river Nénalin, and thronged the streets all the way to the King’s Square, which was itself a sea of _edhil_. The greatest of eagles was no longer anywhere in sight.

Their elven eyes espied figures on the steps of the palace, tiny in the distance.

Nárriel watched as a raven-haired _n_ _í_ _s_ began to ascend the steps alone, and the King descended towards her. And she _knew_. Even before Arman at her side breathed in a voice that broke with anxious concern, “ _Amm_ _ë_ …”

She reached for his hand as it lay upon the sill, and gripped it.

And they watched. As the _n_ _í_ _s_ faced the king for what felt like an eternity, then fell to her knees on the landing. They watched with bated breath as the King stood frozen, staring down at her. When, at last, the King stooped, and raised her, and embraced her before the people of the kingdom, a small sigh of relief escaped from Nárriel. They heard the murmurs sweep through the crowd and swell with amazement.

The king at last released the _n_ _í_ _s_ from his embrace, and what words were spoken then between them, none could hear. Then she turned on the landing to face the people. And knelt down again. Elven ears at this distance could see her lips move, but hear naught of her words.

An uproar began to sweep through the crowd, spreading out in concentric waves from the King’s Square. The crowd in the streets below Nárriel and Arman were asking each other: “ _What did he say…?” “Could you read her lips…?” “He said…” “She said…”_ “‘ _Forgive me…_ ’”

On the steps of the palace, others moved forward to surround the King and the nís, and Nárriel and Arman saw gleams of gold amid the group, as embraces were exchanged or hands shaken. The crowd also had surged forward, and before long the group on the steps was almost engulfed, the King’s Guard quickly stepping forward to hold the people back. The King and his lords and guests made their way up the steps, and disappeared through the palace doors.

With a sigh, Arman turned at last away from the window, sank dazed and weary onto the floor, and leaned his back against the wall.

Nárriel sat by him in silence.

“That went well, I thought…” she said at last.

“It did. Beyond anything I could have dreamed.”

“Perhaps this means you will not have to leave after all.”

He turned his face towards her and smiled. “Perhaps. But a king’s public forgiveness does not signify that all here will receive us kindly.”

“That is true.” Her heart sank as she thought of her own father. She reached out to touch the dark purple bruise on the side of Arman’s face. “What happened?”

He chuckled. “Rasco of the Hammer happened.”

Her eyes went wide, then flashed with anger. “I might have guessed!”

“Who could blame him? I lied. I am the Traitor’s son. And…” he added with disarming simplicity, “I love you.”

A smile blossomed like a rose and glowed on her face, but she quickly looked away and smothered it. “You do not know me, Arman Laurefindilion.”

“Not yet,” he conceded.

“How then can you love me?”

His azure eyes gazed at her, transparent and truthful. “It began with your hair. Your eyes. You have the most incredible hair and eyes in Arda.”

“ _Hmph._ I have heard _that_ song before. And learned well to mistrust it.”

“Nárriel, hear me—so new is this feeling that I know not how to comprehend it. But, though I know next to naught _about_ you, yet I feel… I _know_ you. You are strong. And brave. And true. And deep within, I know that you are for me…” He stopped himself and flushed. “Eru. I am sorry. That sounds so stupid.”

She gazed at him gravely. “Only as stupid as my feeling the same of you too.”

And sitting on the floor beneath the windows, as the crowd below marvelled loudly at the return of the hero and traitor, the two offspring of three Lords of Gondolin leaned towards each other, and kissed.

She murmured, “You are too good at this. How much practice have you had?”

“Probably no more than you,” he said, before they resumed their very pleasurable exploration of the other’s mouth.

“Wait… this is too fast,” she managed to say as they surfaced to breathe.

“You are right,” he sighed, sitting back reluctantly.

“We should take it slow.”

“Get better acquainted.”

“Yes. Tell me about yourself.”

He looked stumped. “Where do I begin?”

“Whatever comes to mind.”

“I am the younger of twins. I like forests, singing, archery, and crafting jewels. I can drink like a fish and never get drunk. I am terrible at math. I attract trouble more than my brother does. You are warned. Your turn.”

“I am excellent at math, dreadful at embroidery. I can outrun any _n_ _í_ _s_ in Alcarinos. I like archery too. And knife-throwing, lute-playing, and dancing. I get drunk after one jug, and I throw people when I am drunk. You are warned. Your turn again.”

“It drives my brother crazy that I can sit up in a tree all day singing and gazing at clouds.”

She chuckled. “It drove Arakáno crazy that I thrice changed my mind about what to wear to meet his parents…”

An awkward silence abruptly fell.

“Do you love him still?”

She frowned, mulling the question seriously. “No,” she said. “I see him more clearly now. He never loved me.”

“He is a fool not to love you. But how I thank the Valar for that—”

And he was silenced as she pulled him to her for another deep kiss.

“Oh… there is one more little thing I should tell you,” he said sometime later.

“What?”

“This is not my true hair colour.”

 

“Make way, good people. Make way!” shouted Elemmakil of the King’s Guard as their horses slowly made their way through the throng and down the street.

 _“Angar_ _á_ _to! Arafinwion! Hail and welcome!”_ some of the Alcarim called, as they saw who rode at Elemmakil’s side. But Angrod paid those voices little heed, as he overheard what myriad others were saying.

 “—the Mole _wept_ —”

“—Eonwë said—”

“—Findaráto embraced both the Flower and the Mole—”

“— _ran_ down the steps to welcome them—”

“—Amárië _kissed_ them—”

“—Angaráto! _Cundunya!_ Your brother is here!—”

“— _Cundunya!_ What relationship has Findaráto to Laurefindil?—”

“—is the Golden Flower a scion of your House?—”

Angrod smiled and waved at the crowd as princes know to do, but declined to say aught. _Oh, well done, Ingoldo. This is worse than I feared it would be._ The shouts followed him as he dismounted and ascended the steps of the palace.

Elemmakil and the King’s golden-haired cousin were naturally granted admittance at the palace doors, but many in the city had been turned away. Angrod could already hear the exuberant shouts and whistles and singing from the Great Banquet Hall.

“Those would be the people of the House of the Golden Flower, _Cundu_ Angaráto,” explained one of the guards.

“Not _all_ of them, surely?” said Elemmakil.

“About six hundred—mostly Laurefindil’s captains and his guard, his household, and the office bearers who served him. We have had to turn away the rest. The King assured them that Laurefindil will visit the House of the Golden Flower later this day.”

“And any of the Mole’s people?” asked Elemmakil.

The guards exchanged a look. “Twenty-three came forward,” said one. “There are others… but few are brave enough to stand forth as Moles,” said another.

But it was not the Mole who was Angrod’s chief concern. As the prince strode down the palace corridors and the doors of Turgon’s Great Banquet Hall swung open before him, there was no way the third son of Finarfin could miss seeing the Golden Lord of Gondolin.

Glorfindel’s warriors had happily pushed him onto the raised dais at one end of the hall, and the people of the Golden Flower now surged forward to take turns for a hug, a handshake, a kiss, a quick word. The Lord of the Golden Flower stood taller than many of his people, and his radiant hair glowed in the soft, yellow morning light pouring through the windows.

Angrod gaze was riveted on golden hair brighter than his own or his brothers’, though not near as bright as his sister’s. His eyes scrutinized the face, the azure eyes and smile, of this suspected nephew.

 _Eru Almighty… he truly looks as though he could be the son of Ingoldo and Am_ _á_ _ri_ _ë_ _._

“ _Aiya,_ _hanno!”_

Angrod spun around to see his eldest brother and his Vanyarin law-sister smiling at him.

“For the love of Eru, Ingo,” Angrod said tersely. “Tell me— _is he your son?”_

 

As the exuberant and noisy Golden Flowers had filled the Great Banquet Hall, the twenty-three Moles and the one who had once been their Lord had quietly slipped out to an adjoining courtyard for a reunion far more reserved.

Under the tall, shady trees that grew there, they regarded each other uncertainly. The once-Moles had seldom spoken to each other since leaving Mandos, preferring not to mention the past. Enerdhil and Curunáro, who had never been warriors, had more easily assimilated into Alcarinos, with most in the city choosing not to recall that they had ever been Moles. The others, like Eneldur, had fought the House of the Wing and spilled kindred blood, and had returned to the city to be with loved ones, only to largely remain outcasts.

The lady in white stood as straight and proud before them as she had when a man, and looked each of them in the eye with her sharp gaze. “Eneldur… Enerdhil… Curunáro… Turcamaitë…” And as she named each of them in familiar cool, clipped tones, she asked after their families and how they had each fared since Mandos. And between their hesitant, sparing words, she read clearly the hardships and constant judgement some endured, and her heart ached for them.

“I am sorry,” she said quietly, “Sorry for all the hate you have had to bear. Sorry for the loyalty I demanded, for which so high a price was paid. Sorry for the command given that Tarnin Austa, long ago. The blame is all mine, not yours. And it should be known and proclaimed, from one end of Eldamar to the other.”

And it was Eneldur who spoke for them. “ _Cundunya_ —” he began, then stumbled awkwardly, “ _Herinya_ … for years, we could not believe you had betrayed us… nor could we understand… how on that day… how you could have been in such error. But now we know. It was Sauron the Deceiver, and you were his thrall. It was he who convinced us that the House of the Wing had betrayed the city.”

“Yes, that day I was his thrall. But the truth, alas, is that long before that, in Angband, I betrayed the secret of our city. I am in all ways no longer your Lord. Nor your Lady. You are free of all bonds of fealty to me. You owe me no allegiance. Once that is made clear, Eldamar will receive you back to its bosom.”

“You cared and provided for us after the Nírnaeth, _herunya,”_ said Curunáro. “You will ever have our deepest gratitude for that.”

Maeglin looked at the men standing about her. Over half of them, like Curunáro and Enerdhil, had been small elflings left fatherless after the Nírnaeth, and taken under the wing of her former self. Lómion had recognized their gifts and mentored them in their crafts. The rest had been saved in battle by Lómion and watched over by him in the healing halls as they fought their way back to health and strength. _Perhaps_ _I was not such an unredeemed piece of muk after all,_ she thought. _Twenty-three out of nine thousand. It is something, after all the rot and ruin._ Seeing the shining loyalty in their eyes, she had to blink away a tear.

“If you will have me, _herinya_ , I will remain with you to serve you and your house,” said Eneldur.

And he and the others knelt before her shabby boots.

 

On long tables within the banquet hall, the chefs and servers quickly laid out an array of fruits, cheeses, preserves, breads, dumplings, soups, pastries and cold meats for breakfast. And if any of the Lords of Alcarinos thought that the large roast that the chefs were busily carving into thin slices looked familiar, they said nothing.

Egalmoth and Ecthelion stood to one side, observing the reunions in both the hall and the courtyard.

“From Lord of the Mole to White Lady. What a metamorphosis!” exclaimed Egalmoth as they watched Maeglin’s meeting with her Moles, and as her golden-haired elder son joined them and was introduced by her.

Ecthelion smiled. “If no one had told you, would you have known?”

“The likeness to Írisse would certainly have made me look twice. But no. I do not believe there is any way I could have guessed.” Egalmoth looked thoughtful. “Imagine, Fountain—imagine if we had never lost Írisse in Nan Dungortheb.”

“I spent many years imagining it, Arch.” Ecthelion shook his head. “We did lose her. There is no point wishing otherwise. Or thinking what might have been.”

They watched as Glorfindel laughingly continued to greet and speak with the throng of Golden Flowers. Some were wiping tears of joy from their faces.

“Will they stay, do you think?” asked Egalmoth.

Ecthelion thought of the peaceful house in the woods sitting on the shores of a sparkling lake, and a silver-eyed tot with a large hound. “I think not,” he replied at last.

 

Fresh and glowing from her morning toilette, Elenwë entered the far entrance to the courtyard in a flowing dress of sky-blue, a white cat purring as she cradled it in her slender arms. The Queen peered at Maeglin curiously, hearing her speak in Quenya to her Moles, and her brow furrowed. Then a smile lit her fair face, and she came forward with her hand outstretched in friendship. The Moles surrounding Maeglin fell back two steps and bowed.

“ _Alatúlië_. My eyes rejoice to see you again, dear heart. And how fares your baby?” Elenwë said in her lilting Quenya with its strong Vanyarin accent. Amárië, by contrast, could at need speak Quenya like a Noldo native to Tirion.

“The child is well, _Tári_ Elenwë.” Taking the soft, slender, outstretched hand, Maeglin curtsied. She warily examined the smiling face of Turgon’s consort. “I am Lómiel, _Tári,_ ” the Traitor said, thinking the Queen could not know, that she must be ignorant or confused. “Írissë’s child.” 

“Of course you are,” said the Vanya, releasing her hand to gently pat the Traitor’s cheek. “So great is your likeness to her.”

“I am… Írissë’s _only_ child.” The little white cat had leapt down from Elenwë’s arms and was rubbing against Maeglin’s white skirts and shabby boots.

“I know.” The Vanya laid a gentle hand upon Maeglin’s shoulder and smiled into her eyes. In their grey sea-depths, Maeglin glimpsed a shadow of bitter blizzards and vast ice floes that quickly melted away into the morning sun…

 _And what does Itarill_ _ë_ ' _s mother see in my black, black eyes?_

“So much darkness, so much torment, so much regret,” said the Vanya, still holding her gaze. “But all in the past, yes? We are so blessed, now. Our lives are healed, our world is whole again. We should dwell no longer upon shadows.”

Maeglin scented lilac as Idril’s mother gently kissed her cheek, and a silken tendril of golden hair tickled her nose.

Then, picking up the white cat, the Queen gracefully sashayed into the hall in search of her husband.

 

Glorfindel was listening intently to one of his former housekeepers loudly lament the life-choices of her grown offspring. He had played with them when they were elflings.

“…eloped with a _moriquendë_ shepherd—”

Not far away, Glorfindel’s kith and kin were having a discussion.

“Let me introduce him to you,” said Finrod to his younger brother.

“Not here, _hanno_. Not now,” objected Angrod. “Later. In private.”

“We are in a corner screened off by tapestries of Ulmo meeting Tuor. Is this not private enough?”

“One look at that boy within slingshot range of any of us three—” Angrod indicated his brother, his sister and himself, “—and everyone in this hall will be screaming _Secret Son of the Third House.”_

“Then they must surely already be screaming,” remarked Elrond drily.

“Yes. Ingoldo, did you have to hug him before sixty thousand people?” exclaimed Angrod. “Holy Eru! It’s almost exhibitionist!”

“…decides to be a duck farmer—after three _yéni_ studying songs of power—”

“Ingo hugs a lot of people,” said Galadriel. “No one thinks he fathered them all.”

“It is a very distinctive shade of gold,” Nerdanel said to Finrod. “I confess that the moment I saw Arinnáro’s hair, then all of you together, I guessed.”

“The time of hiding and secrets is over,” said Finrod. “I kept this secret only for the sake of Lómiel. That need is gone.”

“What of the High King?” asked Elrond.

“ _Atar_ would be overjoyed to have a new grandson. Of that I am certain.”

“Well… he did say as much…” Angrod conceded reluctantly.

“What are they saying now?” Gimli asked Elrond and Legolas.

“In any case,” Galadriel chimed in, “should it be needful, we could mask—”

“—NO, Artë,” Finrod sighed. “No more masking spells. No more meddling with people’s minds.”

“…at my wit’s end what else to do!” finished the worthy lady, shaking her head.

“ _Nai!”_ commiserated Glorfindel, shaking his golden head. The curse of being mighty in _osanw_ _ë_ , and having kin in the vicinity of even greater mind-powers, was that he had been so distracted he had barely heard anything the housekeeper had said. He made up for it by enveloping the good woman in a tight hug, which made her a very happy _nís_.

“ _Atar_ ,” Glorfindel thought-sent to Finrod, as he shook hands with two of his former stewards. _“Pray do not acknowledge me. Think of your honour and reputation.”_

_“Too late. For better or worse, the Valar have brought you to Eldamar now, yonya. The gossip has begun, I assure you. If I do not acknowledge you, suspicion will fall upon each of the members of the House of Arafinwë in turn, and speculation could breed monsters. Openness and transparency are the best path.”_

And sensing him, Glorfindel spun around, and saw Finrod standing an arm’s length from him.

“Cundu Findaráto,” said Glorfindel formally, stepping back to sweep a courtly bow.

Finrod slung an affectionate arm around his son. “ _Yonya,_ I would like you to meet—” The Crown Prince looked around. “Now, where did my brother go to?”

 

Rog looked down at Maeglin.

They had been almost the same height in their first lives, though Rog had always been more heavily built. He found it disconcerting to see those familiar piercing black eyes scrutinizing him from a face of such delicate beauty.

Maeglin on her part was trying not to think of her nightmares of dead Lords. Back in the forest south, it had taken her almost an hour in Ecthelion’s company before she ceased to be haunted by visions of his drowned face and glazed eyes. Standing before Rog now, she thought she could almost scent a whiff of char. Or was that from the cold slices of roast a passing server had offered her on a platter?

“Your men have always been welcome in my House,” Rog was saying, “and not only those formerly from the Hammer. But if it is their wish to go with you, they are free to leave with my blessing.”

Maeglin shook her head. “I would wish them to stay here, Rauco. I have naught to offer them. A house in the wilderness. A small forge, large enough for just my sons and I. Their families are here, and it is here they belong. I have explained it to them. They understand. They revere you, and are more than content to stay with you. It is the judgement of others here that lies heavy on them.”

“Judgement that should lie less heavy after the revelations of the last night and day.” Rog eyed Maeglin kindly. And it was her turn to be disconcerted, for the Rog she had known in their first lives had perpetually worn a dark scowl more ferocious and fearsome than even the Mole’s. Rog understood better than any other Lord of Gondolin the torments of Angband. Had that disposed him to be more sympathetic towards her? “Would you not consider staying?” he asked. “A smith of your skills would be ever welcome.”

Rog half-expected a cold flash of arrogant anger or annoyance at the condescension of this offer. Instead, the small smile that curled her lips was neither sardonic nor supercilious, but genuinely grateful. “That is kind. One day, perhaps. Not now. _Hantanyel.”_

She gave him a bow as in days of old, and turning away almost walked into a golden-haired prince strange to her.

No. Not a stranger.

Not after the one moment they had shared in the black depths of Angband, six thousand years ago.

Her pale complexion turned an almost deathly shade of white. He stared intently at her black eyes, and it was not the likeness to Aredhel he saw as his steel-grey eyes narrowed.

Angrod’s features differed from his eldest brother’s and his sister’s, for theirs blended the best features in the beauty of their grandparents Finwë and Indis. It was his mother Eärwen—Rílel’s kinswoman—whom this prince took after, and of all the Finarfinions his features were the most Telerin. All the years that stern Angrod had fretted if his brother Aegnor might have fathered the balrog slayer, the Iron Prince had never once considered one thing. If any rumours or scandals were to link the House of Finarfin to the golden-haired balrog slayer, they were likely to be on his own account. The offspring of Finarfin whom Glorfindel most resembled in nature might be his father Finrod, and the one whom he most resembled in his glorious tresses might be Galadriel, but the one whom he most resembled in facial structure alone was Angrod, though the third son of Finarfin failed to see it himself.

Angrod’s iron spirit had seethed at being cooed over as “sweet” and “adorable” he was an elfling. When tall, adult Caranthir had once mocked young Angrod for his prettiness and un-Noldorin appearance, the Fëanorion had learned the hard way why his half-grown cousin’s _epess_ _ë_ was _Iron-handed_. It was that iron-spirit and strength that had allowed Angrod to survive half a century unbroken as Sauron’s pet in Angband. It was Angrod’s golden hair and facial similarity to Glorfindel that had given Maeglin a shock of recognition when they met in hell.

And filthy and naked, emaciated and battered and bloody as they had both been in Morgoth’s dungeons, and gender-changed as one of them was, yet the two prisoners recognized each other now.

“You!” uttered Angrod, as he stared at Maeglin.

“Pardon, _herunya_ ,” she muttered. She sought to slip away into the crowd milling around them in the banquet hall, but he caught her arm above the elbow in his iron grip.

“It… it is _you!”_ he hissed more quietly into her ear. He had never spoken to any of what had happened to him. Not the unspeakable torments and degradations of fifty years. Not his death nor its manner. No, not even to his wife Edhellos. Some memories are too dark and terrible to ever be shared—except with one who had also been there.

“I know not of what you speak,” she mumbled, keeping her eyes averted from his.

“For _years_ I wondered _who you were_. What happened… to you... after…”

 _The blade sliding in. Dark heart-blood spurting._ She crumbled under the weight, the memory of that moment of darkest guilt and horror, cowardice or murderous hatred, dreadful as words of treachery. “Forgive me…” she muttered, barely audible. “Forgive me.”

He looked surprised. “Forgive you, niece? I wished only to thank you.”

Releasing his iron grip on her arm, he took her hand instead. And raising it, he bowed towards her in princely style, and kissed it.

 

To be fair to Arman and Nárriel, they made an effort to comport themselves with propriety when they left the House of the Tree, keeping a good distance between them.

“What if your mother dislikes me?” fretted Nárriel, as they walked towards the palace.

“A knife-throwing maiden? She will adore you.”

“The Mole and the Tree were never friends, back in Ondolindë.”

“The Mole and _anyone_ were never friends, back in Ondolindë. My mother is different now. She is going to love you. I am far more worried about what _your_ parents are going to say about me.”

“Perhaps we should say naught to any about us.”

“Are you good at keeping secrets? Because you know by now that I am not. I want to shout it from the top of the King’s Tower! I love you, Nárriel Galdoriel.”

It was already mid-morning. The crowds had long dispersed and gone back to their daily lives. A number remained about the Square and the Fountain, as was usual, for people enjoyed the shade of the numerous trees that grew there, and the cool mist that blew off the Fountain. At the far end, several _edhil_ were swimming.

And as the palace loomed huge before them, both nervously felt a reluctance to go further. They looked at the Great Fountain. It was fifty fathoms wide, and its shape was not unlike a clover leaf. Its many water spouts shot skywards in graceful arcs and tall geysers. A statue of Ulmo loomed majestic at the centre, great whales and a kraken at his feet as he blew his great horns, the _Ulum_ _ú_ _ri_. Uinen reclined on the surface of the water at the vala’s left, surrounded by swans. At this end of the Fountain, Ossë glowered ferociously over his shoulder down at Nárriel and Arman, dolphins swimming in his wake.

“It is a replica of Ecthelion’s Fountain in Ondolindë,” Nárriel said.

“Really?” said Arman, walking to the edge of the Fountain and peering into its cool depths. “Is it deep enough to drown a valarauco?”

“Let us find out.” And as he gaped at her, she kicked off her shoes, loosened her laces, pulled her riding dress over her head, and dived in wearing only an ivory-hued slip.

He pulled off his boots and his tunic, and in a moment was swimming after her as she slipped like a _falmar_ through the cool, clear depths of the Fountain, fiery hair streaming behind her.

They dived three fathoms to touch the bottom, just for sport, then surfaced and pulled themselves onto the back of one of the life-sized marble dolphins.

“Certainly deep enough to drown a balrog,” he gasped, wiping water from his face.

“This must be the end where Ecthelion died, then,” she said breathlessly, squeezing water out of her long tresses. “The other end is shallower. I swim most oft near Uinen.”

He was trying very hard not to look at her. At how the wet slip clung to her lithe curves. “Of course—Ecthelion—did not really die _here_.”

She felt the heat emanating from his nearness, and leaned towards him like a chilled traveller towards a warm hearth. “Well—you—know what I mean,” she murmured, as their lips met and their wet bodies pressed against each other.

 

“Have you spoken to either of them yet?” asked Duilin, as he sat himself across from Galdor.

The Lord of the Tree was seated by a window overlooking the King’s Square. He had been drinking rather heavily since his arrival in the banquet hall, and emptied his goblet of wine before he replied. “No.”

“Not even Laurefindil? You used to be such friends. What in Eä is ailing you, Tree?”

Galdor shook his heavy head and said nothing. He was not at that moment certain how he felt about anything, or why. Flashbacks to the Fall of Gondolin aside, the thought of the Lord of the Golden Flower together with the Lord of the Mole so disturbed Galdor that he could not bear to even look at either of them. He kept his distance from Maeglin. When he caught her obsidian eyes resting on him, once, he had turned and walked away.

Duilin frowned with concern at his taciturn friend, then glanced out of the window. His blue-grey eyes widened ever so slightly as he peered at the Fountain.

The Swallow gave the Tree a sidelong glance, then discreetly looked about the hall to see if anyone else had noticed what he had. Some way off, the Swallow saw Aryo standing at the windows, staring out transfixed, and saw Maeglin walking up to stand by her son. “ _Muk!”_ the Swallow heard the Mole swear.

Seeing Galdor’s head turn towards the window as well, Duilin said in a level voice, “Tree. Wait. _Stay calm.”_

Galdor froze _._ Then his face flushed almost as red as his hair before he exploded. _“That spawn of Sauron!!”_

The next moment, the Lord of the Tree was out of the window and climbing down to the Square. Simple as this feat would have been to him at any other time, it was not a stunt that any irate father should attempt after ingesting two decanters of wine.

It was to Galdor’s credit than he made it more than halfway down and fell only twelve _rangar_ , fracturing two ribs and his right ankle. Duilin, who had followed him out of the window, was at his side in three seconds, Glorfindel in seven. Most of the people in the banquet hall were soon running down the long flight of palace steps to the King’s Square, to where the Lord of the Tree lay, very conscious and cursing vociferously, as the Swallow and the Golden Flower tended to him.

Only two persons ran straight to the Fountain, where a wet, dishevelled and shame-faced young couple were doing their best to scramble back into their dry clothes.

“Arman!” exclaimed Aryo as his twin pulled on his boots. “What the _hell?”_

Maeglin’s obsidian eyes coolly regarded the maiden whose emerald eyes were peering at her through a tangle of wet, flame-coloured hair. “Galdor of the Tree’s daughter, I presume.”

 _“Herinya—Ánin apsene—”_ stuttered the maiden as her fumbling fingers tried to lace up the garment that had been shed so easily a short while earlier.

“Me? Forgive anyone?” Maeglin stepped forward, and with skilled fingers deftly laced up the back of the girl’s dress. “It is your father you should ask forgiveness of, not I. Consorting with traitor’s spawn. What were you thinking? No, don’t answer. Of course, you were not thinking at all.”

“ _Amm_ _ë_ ,” said Arman, adjusting the belt of his tunic, “This is Nárriel. Nárriel, this is my mother Lómiel and my brother Arinnáro.”

“We have met,” said Aryo shortly, arms folded, glowering at the redhead.

“ _N_ _á_ _n alassea le-omentien_ , Nárriel Galdoriel. But because I have it on the best authority that I am Sauron Incarnate and an evil orc-blooded monster, I do not expect you to return the sentiment.”

“ _Amm_ _ë_ , please! Nárriel, do not mind her. She is teasing you.”

“ _N_ _á_ _n alassea le-omentien_ , Arinnáro, _herinya,”_ murmured Nárriel, pushing her wet hair from her face with a shy, uncertain smile.

A small smile curled Maeglin’s lips. “Go to your father, child. And Eru help you.”

As Arman ran together with Nárriel to apologize to his beloved’s father, his mother said, “Be careful, _yonya_. Tree has a long reach and is apt to throttle you.”

Maeglin and Aryo remained by the Fountain and watched as Nárriel and Arman pushed through the crowd to get to Galdor’s side.

“She is quite lovely,” said Maeglin.

“Do not be taken in by that sweet smile. The first time we met, she was stone drunk. And tossed me like a rag doll across a _yuldacar_.”

“Really?” Maeglin’s eyebrow lifted. “She is going to fit right into this family.”

Aryo bit his lower lip and smouldered. _Of course you would approve! Anything with pointed ears would fit into this family. She is an elf. She is immortal. They are going to live forever and produce little pureblood elflings for you._

Maeglin wordlessly put her arms around her firstborn and hugged him tightly, adding the comforting warmth of her love _f_ _ë_ _a_ to _f_ _ë_ _a_.

By now, they could hear the Lord of the Tree ranting rather incoherently of treachery and the evil schemes of Sauron and Moringotto, and the doom and darkness that were soon to befall Aman again.

He was still raving in the healing hall of the King, until the healers sedated him.

After a lengthy deliberation with the King and the Lady of the Tree, arrangements were made with Olórin the maia. As soon as the Lord of the Tree was able to ride, the silver-bearded maia would take him to the Gardens of Estë for a much-needed season of inner healing and rest, while Duilin of the Swallow covered his duties.

 

That evening, Glorfindel returned to the palace from the House of the Golden Flower to find Maeglin gazing at the sunset from their guest bedchamber.

His House had naturally offered him the Lord of the Golden Flower’s fine lodgings for the night. But Maeglin would have been uneasy there. Nor had Glorfindel wished to raise his House’s hopes that he would stay for good. Earlier that morning, he had gently declined plans for an all-night feast they wished to hold.

He sat by Maeglin silently, and together they watched the sun sink behind the mountains.

For him, it had been a joyous homecoming. For her, the meeting with her handful of Moles had been bittersweet, leaving a profound sadness, a deep aching sense of loss. It had been a day of forgiveness, of reconciliation… but the consequences of the past remained.

They both knew there were more than twenty-three Moles within the city. But perhaps those others could not accept that the proud, stern Lord who had once led them was now a _n_ _í_ _s_. Perhaps they had long ceased to be loyal to the Mole. Perhaps they wished one and all to overlook they had ever been Moles, and wished themselves never to recall it. What had the revelations of the past day changed? It had absolved the Moles, as thralls and dupes of Sauron, of some of their culpability as kinslayers. They might no longer blame the Lord of the Mole for commanding them, in their misguided loyalty, to fight their kin. They might be able to hold their heads higher in Eldamar. Their lives might be easier. But it remained that they had once served and killed for a traitor, and that truth remained dark and bitter, no matter how publicly forgiven and justified the traitor was. 

Glorfindel’s old life was here, waiting to be taken up again. His lodgings had been built just as Ecthelion and his stewards knew he would like it. For two thousand years, they had run his House essentially as he had run it once. But everything Maeglin had worked hard to build in Gondolin had been wiped out by that one moment of treachery. His House, his old roles, his old positions were gone.

New ones could be created. Turgon had spoken, as Rog had, of a place in the House of the Hammer. The King had further mentioned a ceremony in Tirion to confer the title of “princess of the Noldor” as befitted a granddaughter of Fingolfin. He had offered quarters in the palace that she and Glorfindel could make their own, such as the chamber they sat in now.

Maeglin gazed about at the vibrant tapestries and elegant stonework of the luxurious, comfortable bedchamber, and felt an empty ache in her heart.

“Let us go home soon,” Glorfindel said.

“We can stay if you wish. _Amil_ could bring _Alass_ _ë_ here.”

“No. This is not the place for us.” He put his arm around her. “I may ride here perhaps once a _coranar_ to join the Lords for games and visit the Golden Flowers. And our sons may choose to remain here, if they so wish.”

“I think it is clear that they wish it.”

“We could visit them, now and again.”

“We could. During feasts. Not Tarnin Austa.”

“Never Tarnin Austa,” he agreed.

“The Golden Flowers still have no Lord. Poor Ecthelion. Will he be burdened with your House and your duties forever?”

“Turukáno and Ecthelion spoke to me. They think that either of our boys might mature into a suitable Lord of the Golden Flower in a couple of _y_ _é_ _ni_.”

“A couple of _y_ _é_ _ni!_ You were Lord of the Golden Flower when you were seventy-two _coran_ _á_ _ri_ old!”

“I was groomed for it since I was thirty-five, _melmenya.”_

“I was Lord of the Mole at sixty.”

“And all of us disagreed with Turukáno that it was the right move, giving a House to an ambitious little brat with sociopathic tendencies.” He grinned and kissed her scowling face. “Our sons will need time. Arman’s little indiscretion in the Fountain today did not impress Turukáno.”

“Nor would your little bedroom romps at Nevrast if Ecthelion ever told him about them.”

“I had, at the age of forty, the sense to keep them to the bedroom! Though to be fair to Arman, I was never smitten with anyone but you.”

“And look how much restraint we had.”

“Let us be grateful they only went as far as kissing.”

“Only kissing? You did not see their hands?”

“In spite of that, the King and Ecthelion perceive Arman as a more likely successor to the Golden Flower than Aryo. As a smith Aryo is a far better fit for the Hammer.”

“You could be Lord of the Golden Flower in the interim. Train and groom them—or another—for the position yourself.”

“But as you have already said, you would not wish to be my Lady at my side. And all I want, right now, is to go home and play dwarves-and-trolls with our daughter. And harvest the honey. And plant more oats.”

She smiled. “Rye.”

They kissed. And as the last light faded in the western sky, her sadness resolved into a sense of closure and peace.

“Shall we leave tomorrow?” she asked.

“How about the day after? There is one thing I need to do tomorrow.”

 

“This is the _sixth_ wash,” complained Arman as Aryo scrubbed at his hair. “Is it not out yet?”

Aryo was the one with the strange look on his face this time. “It is most peculiar,” he said, rinsing out the mix of lemon, vinegar and Nerdanel’s lotion.

Arman turned his head to look at the water in the bucket. “That water looks pretty clear to me. Is much dye left?”

“Barely. But your colour… has changed.”

“Changed? Has it turned bright green?” And swinging his legs down off the bench, Arman strode over to the mirror hanging on the wall. And stared at himself.

His hair was almost the same shade of gold as his brother’s.

“Is it a lingering stain?”

Aryo examined his twin’s roots. “The new hair shows the same colour.”

Arman was still staring mesmerized at himself. “I don’t know what to make of it,” he said. “The mountain air? The water of the Fountain?”

“True love’s kiss?” deadpanned Aryo, rolling his eyes.

Arman cocked his head to one side. “I think I mind it not,” he pronounced.

“Truly do we look like brothers for once,” said Aryo, slinging his arm around his twin.

Arman grinned. “And Legolas need have no cares that any might confuse him with me.”

 

“Quendingoldo, old friend! _Anar s_ _í_ _la l_ _ú_ _menn’ omentielvo!”_

“Why, haha! Laurefindil! My eyes are gladdened to see you.”

“And mine to see you, Loremaster. There is a little something I have wanted to discuss with you for the past two hundred years.”

“Ah. Yes. About that. I am an observer and recorder of history, Laurefindil dear friend. I merely _record_ that which I could observe, or that which witnesses tell me.”

“Indeed. And what _witnesses_ testified to you that Írissë married an orc-blooded monster?”

Pengolodh shifted on the cushions of the seat in the _yuldacar_. “I wrote that account at the Havens, you understand. The pain and loss were fresh… There was much speculation… I merely _compiled_ the accounts of many.”

“Why, Quendingoldo, I am shocked! _Speculation?_ What of your devotion to truth and fact?”

“Ah, Laurefindil, what is _truth?_ History is only as accurate as our perspective of events. And that may alter, given fresh revelations...”

“Well spoken, Loremaster. ‘May alter given fresh revelations’! Have you paper and pen at hand?”

“Not _here_ , Laurefindil. Let us have a drink—”

“Oh, no no no! No wine.” Glorfindel pried the flagon from the Loremaster’s fingers. “We wouldn’t desire aught to compromise _historical accuracy_ , would we?” Beaming brightly, Glorfindel took Pengolodh by the elbow, and steered him out of the _yuldacar_ to the Library of Alcarinos next door. “Our beloved Istuinor will surely have all the materials we need, and his famed spiced tea aplenty.”

“Haha. Lovely.” The Loremaster had never been partial to Istuinor the Librarian’s spiced tea.

Glorfindel seated Pengolodh at a large table in the library, and Istuinor serenely set a sheaf of papers, a quill, an inkpot, and a large cup of tea before the historian.

Pulling up a chair, Glorfindel bestowed a dazzling smile upon his former classmate, and leaned his chin on his hand. “Let us begin!”

 

Then the Flower and the Mole bade fond farewell to their sons, who remained with the Houses of the Hammer and the Swallow, and rode forth from the fair kingdom of Alcarinos.

And on the way home, as they rode in noble company, there was a detour to Tirion.

Glorfindel and Finrod were still at odds. “If you acknowledge me—what then?” he asked his father as they rode through the Calacirya. “Will my mother’s deed be exposed? Think of Legolas. Both his paternal grandparents would be dishonoured and shamed.”

“Many of Oropher’s people are here,” agreed Elrond, “even though he may remain in Mandos.”

“And not Oropher alone is disgraced by this,” Galadriel pointed out. “Recall that Rílel is close kin to Celeborn. And kin, though more distantly, to Thingol and to Olwë.”

“I never did intend to reveal aught of Rílel,” said Finrod placidly. “Only to acknowledge that I have a son.”

Angrod almost rolled his eyes. “Be sensible, _hanno!”_ he said. “There could be no son without a mother! Ulmo did not wash him up onto the beach in a conch shell.” There were times his eldest brother serenely uttered the most inane things that proved over time to be full of wisdom and foresight. Angrod did not think this was one of them.

“ _Atar_ , you did say that speculation breeds monsters. Would Amárië not be hurt by such speculation?”

Finrod and Amárië exchanged one of those thoughts and smiles that for a brief moment shuts out the whole world.

“If it looks as though we are ashamed, and seeking to deny it in guilt or fear, I believe it will quickly fester,” Finrod said. “But I have no guilt or shame. I have a son! I will not deny it. I will not be secretive and let the guessing games run wild. Is he mine? Artaresto’s? Aikanáro’s? Artë’s? _Yours,_ Ango? None of you will be spared. Let it fall on me alone, as it should, and let them see the pride and joy I have in my son.”

“And when they ask about the mother?”

“Then I will say that it is I,” said Amárië. “Let them make of it what they will. But in my _f_ _ëa_ , that is no lie.”

“Nor to me,” said Finrod. “If I have any memory of Laurefindil’s making, it was Amárië with whom I lay. So, in truth, he is the child of our love.”

“‘ _Let them make of it what they will’,_ ” muttered Angrod. “Mountain of Manwë, I shudder to think what they will make of it.”

And so they rode in through the gates of Tirion, and smiled as the people cheered and welcomed them. The Noldóran and Noldotári descended the steps of the King’s House, and before all the people of Tirion, they kissed the hero and traitor of Gondolin on both cheeks, and showed them much honour and affection as they stayed two days as guests of the High King. 

And soon all who served at the King’s House spread abroad what they had witnessed. Both the Crown Prince and the Princess called the balrog slayer _yonya_. The High King and Queen themselves addressed him as _indya_. And as the gossip and speculation rampaged through Tirion and thence across all Eldamar, the wedding of the youngest grandson of Finwë was almost completely eclipsed into insignificance.

_“…adopted?” “…foster son?” “Nay! Look at him!” “That hair… those eyes… that face…” “…no foster son could that be!” “…surely he is trueborn.” “Impossible!” “How can it be?” “Was he not born in Beleriand?” “Were Amárië and Findaráto not sundered by the great sea?”_

And over the months and years that were to come, Finrod and Amárië would hold true to their words. No public declarations would there be, and no explanations. Their affection for their son, transparent and true, was evident to all, and many would sigh at how it warmed the heart. And in the marketplaces and the winehouses the whispers and gossip would shape themselves into a myriad forms, each version more fantastic than the last. Bards sang their ballads, and storytellers wove their tales, till if the truth were told at last none would have believed it.

_…then Finrod carved a statue of his beloved in Minas Tirith. And lo! Aulë blessed it. And each night did cold marble became warm flesh, and Amárië descended from her pedestal to be with him..._

_…then did Amárië the Faithful brave the Grinding Ice, and after unspeakable hardships attain the far shore. But so changed in appearance was she, that none save her true love knew her. Her face was thin and pale, and her hair turned white as snow…_

_…long days wept sweet Amárië before the throne of Manwë till her tears flowed as blood… and great pity did the Elder King have upon her at last, and his eagle flew her across Belegaer…_

_…then Irmo brought her nightly to her love, in dreams that grew ever more vivid and real, till at last the lovers held each other truly as flesh and blood…_

_… ‘This boon shall I grant thee,’ said the Elder King. ‘But should any save he lay eyes upon thee in the Hither Lands, then will the spell will be shattered, and thou borne on the winds back to Aman.’ Thus in the years when the sun was young did the lovers wander the wild lands in great joy, the stars their roof and their home the forests wild…_

_… And in the wild she bore him a child full fair and golden, in the days ere Nargothrond was even a thought. But then, alas…_

_…Turukáno came upon her unawares…_

_… then Artanis, astonished, beheld her friend…_

_… shattered was the spell, and Findaráto watched, as his love dissolved into air like a vapour or a dream…_

_… ah woe! for they were sundered, and Amárië lost, as the cruel orcs descended upon them…_

_… sudden there arose a great storm and she was lost…_

_… there descended a nauro upon her when she was alone…_

_…and with her last breath, Amárië spoke his name…_

_…long years he sought her in the wilderness…_

_… then grieved Findaráto exceedingly, and lost himself in the delving of Nargothrond… and his son he sought long in the wilds… but of the babe found no trace…_

_… and Felagund declared Nargothrond should have no queen…_

_… to his wonder the shepherd did see, a newborn babe lying next to the lambs…_

_… the Nando hastened to where he thought faery gold lay thither in shady grove…_

_… but no gold was it that lay lapped by the waves, but hair like Anar on a tiny head…_

_… swaddled in linen of Valinor…_

_… hastened they to Vinyamar that stood by the shore, and with great stealth left the babe upon the step…_

_… and the princess found and claimed him as her own…_

Thus it would persist for a season or two. Glorfindel would be appalled, and Maeglin amused, but Finrod and Amárië would pay the bards and balladeers no heed. In this strange fashion would the honour of Elmo’s House be upheld, and Amárië, all unknowing, clothed with the romance of a folk heroine.

And in this way would the secret shame of Rílel remain hidden, as she pondered her deeds long in the shadows of Mandos, and dreamed of her golden son.

 

It was a peaceful journey through the forest. The horses did not bother him, nor the _maiar_ of the forest who muttered in the wind around him and sighed in the grasses and leaves.

Solitude had eased him, once upon a time. And solitary he had once been, for a long age of starlight and shadow, his small tribe leaving their grim lord be, save when he needed serving, and knowing to keep silence in his presence.

He remembered with resentment the rising of the moon and sun, the noise, the glare of their presence invading his sanctuary. With chants of wild magic he had raised and grown the forest—taller, closer, thicker, till the hated intruders of light were shut out. The hated strangers of the many-pointed star stayed away from the dense woods whose shadows whispered dark curses and threatened to swallow them and their steeds.

Then life had gone on.

Till she came. Creature of the moon, white, white, white, shining too bright, molten silver eyes glittering with arrogance and scorn. Once she had slept away her first fatigue, she was life and constant motion, like the wind, or a stream burbling through the forest. And she was loud. Huntress? Hah. He had doubted at first she could ever keep silent enough not to chase away all her prey. Her voice was the bold, melodious ring of hammer on steel. And if, on the first day, she had seemed too fine and haughty—had wrinkled her delicate nose at his food, turned up her nose at the good clothes he supplied, pursed her lips at the way he ate—by that nightfall she had been hoarsely screaming his name as he bit on her white throat and white breast, her nails raking the bronzed skin of his back, white hips grinding against his in urgent need. And when he was done, with a wild, wicked glint in her eyes, the fine _golodh_ princess had jerked his head back, then licked and bitten his neck and chest till he needed her again.

When they had felt the cool, white little light come into being between them, they had grown still in their throes for a moment of shock and awe. And then, for the first time, their lips had met, in a kiss oddly clumsy yet tender.

For a brief season she learned silence of him, and he learned her laughter, and they walked beneath the stars at the eaves of his woods, at the boundary of both their worlds. Laying her slender hand contentedly in his broad, calloused one, she had turned her back on the open rolling lands; and he, turning his face upwards to the open sky, had seen only her white beauty in the dazzling orb of the hated moon.

But soon had come the end of peace. For, after her, the solitude that had once sustained him became a thing too empty and barren. And the ebb and flow of life about her, her insistent, incessant voice gave him no rest. The child had brought only chaos and strife. Growling, snarling at each other, they had descended into war and misery. And not between her white thighs nor alone in his forge did he ever find wholeness again.

And now, here he was, on the other side of death, in another forest. He no longer hated the sunlight, though he preferred to travel by night. And as he travelled, he wondered what he would find, what he dared hope for, at the tip of the starry butterfly’s wing.

One midnight, he heard voices in a clearing ahead, speaking in Sindarin.

“Why can he not a dragon be?” said a strange, raspy voice. “Big enough for one, he be.”

“ _Him_ a dragon? That’s _silly_ ,” said a child’s voice. “We _can’t_ have a dragon that licks everyone and wags his tail. He’s my pony.”

Creeping nearer, he saw, standing on a fallen log, a tiny child of about five _coran_ _ári_. Her raven locks fell loose upon her shoulders, and her silver eyes sparkled in the forest gloom. Facing her on the log was a badger sitting on his hind legs, and next to the log sat a huge white puppy the size of a large sheep. This was a strange enough sight, but what made it even stranger was that the child and the badger had tufts of greenish-yellow moss sticking to their chins.

“Fine, fine, no dragon,” said the badger. “Lost, lost in an enchanted forest, we could be! And make wanderings.” A clump of moss fell off as he spoke. He picked it up and patted it back onto his furry chin.

“ _Ai,_ that’s _boring_ ,” said the tot. “We need a giant, or a troll. Or _something_ to fight! I wish _Ada_ was here.”

The puppy’s ears had pricked up. It turned towards the woods where Eöl was hidden, its tail wagging wildly.

“If your _Daernaneth_ would return, Thuringwethil could she be. But why dwarves we? Why not elves?”

“Because I _am_ an elf, Oryat!” she said impatiently, adjusting the moss on her chin. “So where is the sport in that? It would be like asking you to play a badger. _Dwarves_ are fun.”

At this point, the puppy went bounding into the trees, barking wildly, and Eöl stepped out into the clearing, two horses following behind him.

“Gilroch! Asfaloth!” cried the tot, jumping down from the log. She scrutinized the stranger sharply, with narrowed eyes. “Who are you? Where are _Amm_ _ë_ and _Atto?”_

“Your parents had to go somewhere, _pen dithen,”_ said Eöl in a voice oddly gruff yet gentle.

“Where?” she demanded.

“Somewhere… north. They left on an eagle.”

The horses confirmed that with a nicker and a neigh.

“An eagle!” Her eyes widened and sparkled. “Could we fly on an eagle too?”

He frowned. “Elves are not made to fly.”

“Who are _you_ anyway? You did not answer my question.”

“You ask too many questions. I knew your Naneth long ago.”

“Ohhh… what’s your name? I’m Glasseth.”

The corners of his mouth turned downwards. “Who gave you _that_ name? Your father?”

“No! My brothers.”

“Hah. They know naught then. Your name should be _Rain_.”

For the first time she grinned. “That _is_ truly my mother-name! Did she tell you?”

“No. Did your mother _never_ warn you not to talk to strangers?”

“Yes. But Canyo here would tear anyone to _tiny_ pieces if they hurt me.”

“Hrmph.” Eöl gazed sceptically down at the puppy, who had been sniffing him happily from head to foot, and had now flopped onto its back begging for a tummy scratch.

“And Oryat is a good fighter,” she added.

“ _Great_ fighter, me,” said the badger, baring his sharp teeth.

“I would trust my life to the badger and not the puppy if I were you, _gwinig_. What is that _nad_ on your chin supposed to be?”

“They’re beards!” she said proudly, patting the bits of moss. A piece fell off. “Can you not tell? We are dwarves!”

“Beard of Taus! No self-respecting dwarf would be seen in those!” Eöl whipped out a knife from Gilroch’s pannier, and began to select and cut lichen and moss off the surrounding trees. In a moment, he had fashioned two long beards with loops, one for badger ears. He carefully looped the beards on the ears of the girl and the badger. Child and creature regarded each other with glee.

“I like you,” she declared to Eöl. “You make _beautiful_ beards.”

“Your mother liked them too, when she was small.”

“You can be a troll,” she said magnanimously. “When the sun rises, you must turn to stone.”

“What if I do not want to be a troll?” he said, waggling ferocious eyebrows at the tot. “Why can I not be a dwarf as well?”

“You are _too big_ to be a dwarf, silly,” she giggled, unfazed. “ _Ada_ is always happy to play the troll. He is a _very_ convincing troll.” She had never seen one in her short life.

“I am sure he is.” Trolls were famed for stupidity.

“Can you roar and bellow as Ada does?”

“Better.”

“Prove it!”

Eöl gave a roar that made the child squeal with delight, and the badger bare his teeth and growl, and sent Canyo running about barking madly.

“Great Tulkas!!” cried a voice in the distance that made Eöl’s heart leap. “Alassë?? _Alass_ _ë!!!”_

And in a moment, a white horse burst into the clearing, mane and tail flying, and on his back, bow bent and arrow notched, was the White Lady of the Noldor.

Their eyes locked over the steady point of the arrow. Her breast was heaving as she looked at him.

 _“Haruni!_ My new friend made us beards!” the tot said happily in Quenya.

“Oh, Eru,” said Aredhel in Sindarin, lowering the bow. “What took you so long? Were you waiting for the Second Music?”

“You leave a _baby_ alone in the care of a _badger?_ What kind of grandmother are you?”

“She is no _baby_ anymore, and this is no ordinary badger—” She dismounted.

“It is Maeglin all over again. How many times did you lose _him_ in the forest?” Their faces were inches apart.

“She wasn’t lost! I knew _exactly_ where she was. And I only lost him _five_ times—”

And as her grandmother’s voice was cut off abruptly, Alassë’s eyes went wide as saucers. “Oooooh…”

“This way, this way,” rasped the badger, quickly pushing the tot out of the clearing, followed by Canyo and the three horses.

“Oryat, were they _kissing?_ —” To the confused tot, it had looked as though each was eating the other’s face.

“Yes, yes. Your _Daerada_ he be.”

“ _Daerada_? The one _Daernana_ was waiting for?”

“Yes, yes. This way. Over the stream.”

“What are those _sounds?_ Are they all right?”

“Yes, yes. Very right.”

And Alassë realized she was looking _up_ at the badger, and the next moment that he _wasn’t_ a badger, but a tall, golden-eyed being. She saw long, flowing brown hair and tawny skin; broad muscled shoulders and chest; large, strong hands; and from his waist down, the powerful hind quarters of a stag.

“Where is Oryat?”

“I am Oryat. And Rusco. And Lapatte.” He shapeshifted quickly from badger to fox to rabbit and back to his maia form again. “My name, one of many—Kelvardil.”

“Why… why did you not tell me earlier?” she looked cross. “You could have played the troll!!”

“Troll I mislike,” he said with a twinkle in his golden eye, lifting and seating her on his shoulders, and beginning to run. “Now, we go home. _Your_ home. At lake. We play what you choose. But my animal _I_ choose. No troll, no.”

Asfaloth and the other two horses turned to give the clearing behind a last curious glance. Then they swiftly galloped after the maia towards the lake.

 

Maeglin buried her face in her daughter’s hair as she held her tight. “ _Amm_ _ë_ , I cannot breathe!” protested the child, her little arms wound around her mother’s neck.

“ _Atto’s_ turn, now!” Glorfindel sang out happily, swooping Alassë up into his arms.

As the laughter of father and child rang bright and melodious through the air, Maeglin turned her head and saw a tall yellow-eyed maia standing at the edge of the clearing. He raised a hand in salute before his form blurred into the shape of a bear and he lumbered into the forest.

As parents and child walked to their house on the lakeshore, a raven-haired couple sauntered out of the main door onto the porch as though they owned the place. They each had an arm wrapped tightly around each other’s waist, and on their faces were the brightest smiles Maeglin had ever seen them wear. Their once-son was unprepared for the tightness of tears that this sight suddenly brought to her throat.

 _“Pitya!”_ called Aredhel blithely, then switched to speaking in Sindarin. “We were beginning to worry. Another week and we would have ridden north to rescue you both!”

Maeglin doubted how much thought her parents had given to how she had been faring in Eldamar, given how contented they both looked. Fighting down her emotion at seeing them so happy, she said, “All has been well in our absence, I trust?”

“Ah, very well indeed,” said Aredhel, smothering a girlish laugh as Eöl gave her butt a furtive squeeze. Maeglin’s face darkened like one of Ossë’s sudden storms.

“I certainly hope the two of you have been behaving yourself before the child,” Maeglin growled in a low voice, using the Avarin dialect of Eöl’s tribe, a tongue she had not spoken since she had been a boy in Nan Elmoth. Glorfindel and Alassë were a distance away, running towards a small meadow where Asfaloth was grazing, Canyo prancing behind them. But Maeglin knew how clearly sound could carry here.

Aredhel glowed, not in the least irked, and continued to speak in Sindarin. “How did we raise such a prude? Of course we have! The maia Kelvardil watched over her with great care. Was Alcarinos as fair and bright as it is sung to be?”

“It is, indeed. The King hopes you will visit it soon.”

“And how fares my brother Turukáno?”

“You may see for yourself,” said a deep voice softly from behind a thick-growing stand of trees, and Turgon emerged, leading his horse. The tall, raven-haired Noldo looked deeply moved, the expression on his face warring between joy at the sight of his long-lost sister, and perturbation at the presence of the Avar who had slain her.

“Turno!” The soft expression on Aredhel’s face made her look like a young girl, even as a ferocious scowl spread across her husband’s face. For all their clashes of wills and her resentment of his over-protectiveness, Turgon was the brother headstrong Aredhel had most loved.

“Írissë!” Brother and sister ran to each other and hugged each other tightly. Watching them, Maeglin wondered, not for the first time, what it would have been like to have had a sibling. She had oft wondered, watching her sons grow up together. Would Lómion have been less of a loner? Would he have been less unhappy, with a sibling to confide in, to share the burdens and heartache of his parents’ constant strife? Would he still have obsessively channelled all his love and adoration to Idril, had a sibling been there to cushion the shock of grief at their parents’ double deaths in Gondolin, and if they had begun a new life there together?

At the rate her parents were going, she thought darkly, she might just have a sibling some time soon...

Turgon and Aredhel had finished their first greetings and exchanges, and the King of Alcarinos had turned his attention to his scowling law-brother. No eyes could grow as cold as those eyes of silver, thought Maeglin. But no eyes could look as murderous as the obsidian-black eyes of Eöl, who was staring daggers at his killer.

“An ill wind it is that brings this _gorn_ -faced walking tree to my forest, _”_ snarled Eöl. “I have a mind to repay the hospitality he once showed me.” The smith-lord’s hand moved slowly to the hilt of the long knife he wore at his belt.

“These woods are Oromë’s, Avar,” Turgon replied icily. “An _edhel_ who presumes to claim any part of it is a fool. And what right to my hospitality did you have, savage? Trespasser into my realm! Brute murderer of my beloved sister!”

“Quiet! The both of you!” snapped Aredhel. “I love you both. And I will _not_ have you at each other’s throats again.” She gazed at each of them in turn. “You. You brought a poisoned javelin, when you pursued me. You sought to slay my precious boy. And you. You disregarded my last wishes. You slew the man I love. And I forgave you both. I forgave all, in the Halls of Waiting. Forgive each other, for the love of Eru, or at the very least for the love of me. Resurrect not the grudges you laid down in Mandos.”

The Noldo and the Avar regarded each other with steely glares for a while. It was Turgon who dropped his gaze first, as he turned to speak to his sister in Quenya. “Arakáno is to be wed, Írissë, on the eve of Vana’s day—”

“Arno to be wed? At last!” exclaimed Aredhel, recalling a betrothal millennia ago in the time of the Trees.

“At last, indeed,” said Turgon, drily. No need to recount Argon’s dalliances. “ _Amm_ _ë_ and _Atto_ long to see you, _n_ _ésaya_. You are dearly missed by all of us. And you have not yet even met Finno’s wife and son, or Itarillë’s son and grandchildren. Please, _n_ _ésaya_ , come to Kortirion for the wedding. And as for… your… _venno_ …” Turgon’s voice was coolly neutral, if not cordial, as he turned to speak in Sindarin to Eöl, who stood glowering by his wife with folded arms. “My revered father and mother, King Fingolfin and Queen Anairë, request the honour of your presence at the occasion of their youngest son’s wedding. You are the chosen of their daughter... and hence their kinsman...” He paused. “…And mine.”

Eöl locked eyes with Turgon for a long moment. Finally he spoke in his deep, gruff voice: “Son of Fingolfin, Íreth is free to go where she pleases. She may seek out her kin if she so desires. But I will not go to the cities of the golodhrim, whose swarming multitudes of people and their clamouring voices I abhor.” He paused. “Yet should Íreth’s kin seek her in this forest, they will find bread, meat and wine for them at my table.”

And Eöl, his face impassive, extended his hand. Turgon clasped it briefly. Then both men, relieved that that was over, turned to watch as Glorfindel came towards them with his daughter seated on his shoulders.

 _“Aranya_ , may I present to you my daughter, Artelissë Mirimë Alassë,” said Glorfindel with a beaming smile as he reached the group.

Alassë was looking a little worried that the Man in the Stone might leak her secret, but her face cleared when Turgon said gravely and with a small wink, “It is a pleasure to meet you, little lady.”

“Are you truly _Atto’s_ King? The one who built Gondolin?” Alassë asked with sparkling eyes as they all walked together to the house.

“I am.”

“And is there a new Gondolin now?”

“Yes, there is. Your brothers are there now.”

“Can _Amm_ _ë, Atto_ and I live there too?”

“If your mother wishes it,” said Turgon, looking meaningfully at Maeglin.

Some distance behind them, Eöl was muttering to Aredhel _what a pity it was that their Maeglin will never be the smith she could have been as a man_ … and _what a shame it was Maeglin did not have better taste in mates than a spindly flower girl no sensible Avar would have chosen_ … Glorfindel was trying to keep a straight face, and Maeglin was gritting her teeth.

“Please, please, _Amm_ _ë,_ can we live in new Gondolin?”

 _“I second Alass_ _ë. New Gondolin is looking more attractive by the moment,_ ” Glorfindel said teasingly to Maeglin’s mind. _“So… shall we?”_

_“Not in a thousand years.”_

Glorfindel eyes were twinkling. _“So shall it be.”_

* * *

_Glossary_

Ánin apsene [Q] = forgive me

Anar síla lúmenn’ omentielvo [Q] – The sun shines on the hour of our meeting.

Falmar [Q] – sea-nymph

Glasseth [S] – Joy + _eth_ [feminine name suffix]

Kelvardil [Q] – friend of animals, living creatures, fauna

Lapatte [Qenya] - rabbit

Nad [S] - thing

Nán alassea le-omentien [Q] – I am happy to meet you

Oryat [Qenya] – badger

Ranga [Q] – 3’2” or 96.5 cm

Rain [S] – free

Rusco [Q] - fox

Tarí [Q] – queen

Taus [Gnomish] - Aulë

 

 

_[Mid-2017: This chapter was written in haste and I never felt I finished it properly, so I've now added on a scene at the end.]_


	47. Epilogue

The Lady of the Golden Flower awakened as her Lord wrapped his warm body around her, his kisses warm and soft on her neck and face.

“Mmm… what time is it?” she whispered, eyes still shut, as she responded sleepily to his kisses.

“Time for this...” he murmured, burrowing beneath the bedsheets. She gave a throaty chuckle and sighs of rapture as he worked his way down her body… then opened her eyes and saw the snow-clad mountain peaks framed in their large bedchamber window. Already the mountain tops were golden, catching fire in the morning sun.

“Balls of Aulë!” she swore as her amorous mood evaporated. She almost kneed him in the chest as she sat up suddenly. “Why did you not wake me earlier?”

“You were having such lovely dreams,” sighed her beloved in disappointment. His face peered at her from under mussed golden hair and a tangle of silken bedclothes.

“The day is already bright!” She struggled to unwind herself from the voluminous bedlinen and pillows piled on the bed.

“So what if it is? Why do you even need to go the forge today?” he said.

“I was to meet Eneldur to discuss some designs… the lamps for Meren Calameneldë.”

“Send him a message. Let us stay in,” he coaxed her. “I have no urgent matters to attend to today, no petitions or disputes to settle. No business except my lady’s pleasure.”

She sighed, her shoulders relaxed, and she sat on the edge of the bed. He sat by her.

“You have been here almost a _month,_ ” he said gently. “Why do you creep out by a side door to Rauco’s House each day before the sun rises, and sneak back after the sun sets? Have the Alcarim not welcomed you as their guest at many a feast and royal occasion?” That amounted to _thousands_ of visits over the millennium they had been in Aman. “You hide. You bury yourself in the bowels of the House of the Hammer each day to avoid the people of my House— _your_ House, now—and to avoid the Alcarim in the streets—”

“They _tolerated_ me as a guest. That does not mean they welcome me as an inhabitant.”

He sighed. “These are but your fears and imaginings at work. You read coldness or judgement where there is none. Since we arrived here, I have watched those around you with the eyes of a hawk, and seen naught in their faces but acceptance and hospitality. Lay down this needless guilt of yours once and for all. Many in this House have been asking after you, _melmenya_. The gardeners wish to create a Lady’s Garden for you—”

She cut him off with a rude snort, but her eyes were shining soft as she smiled wryly. “A Lady’s Garden. Am I to sit there doing dainty needlework, or playing a harp?”

“You could read and sketch your designs there. We could even spar and practice archery there! Come, _melmenya._ The kitchen and the stables, the weavers and musicians, the librarians and housekeepers and herbalists are waiting for you to meet with them. Arman and I have advised them on your favourite things. They are anxious to make you feel welcome. To make this a home for you.”

She made much of heaving a huge sigh. “If I must, I must. The Lady of the Golden Flower shall do her duty to her people. Damn, what shall I wear? I have not donned a dress since I arrived.”

But by the end of the long tour of the House of the Golden Flower that followed, Glorfindel thought she had almost enjoyed herself.

Arman had served well for almost a millennium as the Lord of the Golden Flower, at the end of which his _f_ _ëa_ ’s longing for the forest had re-awakened. As his lady, the daughter of the Tree, also wished it, they had departed for the elm woods of Alalminórë to join Thingol and Melian’s court. Thus had Glorfindel at long last re-assumed the leadership of his House. On the way to Alcarinos, however, Maeglin’s nerve had failed her. A detour to the Halls of Aulë had followed, and she had remained there for the next decade, absorbed in craft, whilst Glorfindel went ahead to Alcarinos.

Mirimë, who had assumed her mother-name once she came of age, spent half her time in Oromë’s woods, and half her time in Tirion. She was fast friends with Rasco the hunter, who had departed Alcarinos for the south shortly after Arman came to Alcarinos. But it was to Galdor’s grandson Almion she was betrothed, for the two elflings had loved each other from the moment they first met at Argon’s wedding.

And as for Aryo, after a few centuries with the House of the Hammer he had headed north to Formenos. He was now one of Celebrimbor’s trusted smiths, and the creator of many exquisite and ingenious works there.

But each night he returns to the elusive shaping of a palantír. A palantír like no other, which could pierce the veils that separate Aman from the mortal lands, and watch the histories of Ennor unfold.

 

But let us leave the living for a while, and visit the Halls of Mandos. There, a _f_ _ëa_ in the halls of history is watching the story of a traitor continue to unfold.

Námo quietly comes to the side of this _f_ _ëa,_ and they watch in silence as a black-haired _n_ _ís_ radiant in robes of green and gold walks arm-in-arm with her lord through the House of the Golden Flower, graciously greeting her people. They watch her in the forges of the House of the Hammer, as she shapes metal on her anvil, her face rapt in concentration. Watch as she visits her children. As she hunts the woods with her mother, both dressed in white. As she has another fierce quarrel with her stiff-necked father, then reconciles with him yet again. As she travels the wild lands of Aman at the side of her golden-haired love, and they swim in waterfall pools and fly on the backs of eagles.

 _“A fair enough outcome to a foul trick,”_ says the _f_ _ëa_ at last to the Lord of the Dead. _“So... is this what you have planned for me? I might find my way sooner to a fiery chasm if it is.”_

_“Fear not, ’tis not as a nís you shall return to Aman…”_

_“And for that I should be grateful? Why need I return at all?”_

_“You are not happy here.”_

_“Who can be happy with unlife? But in life there is… so much pain.”_

_“And joy, and glory, and purpose, and love. You have forgotten the taste of these. But they can be yours again.”_

There comes a small sound that is a soul’s sigh. And whether it is from yearning or resignation, I could not say.

_“I should be grateful, I suppose, to be granted the courtesy of a conference and a choice. Very well. Yes.”_

“ _That is well, child. That is well.”_

_“What of my brothers?”_

_“The twins will go with you.”_

_“And the others?”_

A ghost of a smile flits across the vala’s face.

 

Across the ocean, the ages of men have passed, and kingdoms have risen and fallen.

Far north in the Iron Mountains, a hunter was returning to his caves without kill. It was no great matter. They would not be hungry for another week. It was a land harsher than Himring had been, though not as cold. They had dwelled south in fortresses of wood and stone a millennium before, but the _atani_ had grown too numerous, and their wars had raged through the land till the _quendi_ were driven into deep wood and cave. There were only a dozen of them left of their tribe. _His_ tribe. He had long ceased to think of himself as one of the strange _Lachend_ , for the flame of his eyes had dulled. The hunter lifted his head and looked at the stars above the black shadows of great firs and pines. And in his mind he heard their names in the musical tongue he had not spoken for ten thousand years. _Sorontar_ , King of Eagles… _Alqua_ the Swan… _Angulócë_ the Serpent… _Quingamo_ the Archer…

No, they did not speak it anymore, the tongue of the _Lachend_. Not even among themselves. Theirs now was the tongue of the _moriquendi_ , the tongue of his black-eyed mate.

He thought it was the newborn of a mountain cat when he heard it. A faint, tiny mewing through the wind in the firs. He picked his way lightly towards it, and froze with disbelief when he saw it—a tiny babe, newborn and naked, lying in the needles beneath a clump of black firs.

He picked it up gently, and with awe. Saw the tiny pointed pink ears, the fuzz of raven hair, and the sheen of the silver eyes in the red, crumpled tiny face.

There had not been an elven birth he had heard of for four thousand years. He looked about with his keen hunter senses for traces, foot prints, scents. And found naught. A babe, still wet, as though just dropped from the womb, and all about it, no trace of man nor elf nor any other creature. He shivered.

Quickly, he wrapped the babe in his cloak, and hurried back to his cave.

 

The guards stared entranced at the prisoner in the windowless cell. It was a small cell, dwarf-sized. There was the sound of water flowing, a subterranean river rushing to meet the waters of the Tawarhir. And song. The prisoner sat unmoving but for his lips, and from them poured a stream of song, a melody so fair and so sorrowful that it spoke of every grief and every loss, every heartbreak and every betrayal and every death since before the sun began. The guards stood with tears flowing down their faces, and wished that it would cease, and prayed that it would not.

They snapped to attention as the clang of a gate announced the arrival of the king.

The Woodland King looked at the bowl of gruel on the floor before the bars of the cell. Untouched. Again.

“You will eat,” he said coldly, “If we have to force your jaws open and pour it down your throat. As before.”

The prisoner was silent. Not a muscle twitched.

“Tomorrow we will feed him.” The king waved his hand, and the guards took the cold gruel away, and left them alone.

Their eyes met, silver and azure.

“I would like to strip you naked, and hang you by your wrists,” said the king, “and flay you till your bones are bared, and feed your entrails to the wolves, and tear out your tongue to silence your song forever. But I will not. Because you might just die. And I will never be as you are… kinslayer.”

The prisoner’s silver eyes gazed back into the king's azure ones unblinkingly.

“And we do not wish your death, do we? Death is too good for you. The peace of Mandos is too good for you.” The king walked closer to the bars. “You have cursed yourself more than I could. Your song pains you more than muteness would… and yet you cannot but sing. Your life pains you more than death… and yet you cannot but live.

“Live then. And I will take from you that which remained to you. Never to again see light of star or sun. Never to again feel the breezes of the forest, or see a flower bloom, or feel the sweet grass beneath your feet. Food you shall have, and water. And may my mercy rot your kinslaying _fae_ more than my wrath ever could.”

The silver eyes did not follow the king as he left. The prisoner stared a long while unseeing at the iron bars. Then his lips parted, and the song returned, each note like the welling of a crimson drop of blood.

 

The blizzard howled around them as the two shivering, naked elflings stumbled through the woods and the blinding snow.

“Where are we?” said the tinier, dark-haired one who looked little older than a baby who had just learned to walk.

“Can’t see. We might be going round in circles,” replied the elder, who was a head taller than the other, and on whose head shone pale silvery-gold locks that had been an eternal mystery to his tribe and his parents ever since his first birth.

“Is this penance for Losgar?” whimpered the younger one.

“At least they had clothes on the Helcaraxë. My _puntl_ is going to freeze off.”

They tripped over a root and landed deep in a snow drift.

“Grab my hand! I’ll pull you out.”

“I can’t! I can’t feel my hands! or my feet,” whined the baby.

 _“_ _Á puhta,”_ swore the older child as with a struggle he finally pulled the baby out of the drift. Then through the howl of the wind and the driving snow, he sensed in his _f_ _ëa_ a terror near them. And through the snow he saw the shadow loom black, saw the glow of red eyes, and heard even through the wind, the growls.

“Run! Run!”

“I can’t!” sobbed the baby, stumbling through the snow.

The elflings were beyond thought as they ran in sheer terror. If there was anything in their heads, it was strangely a vision of their golden-haired cousin.

Then it was upon them, the _nauro_ , mad red eyes glowing like lava, fangs bared and slavering. The elder child pushed the baby behind him, and waited with dread for the fangs to sink.

But there was the whistling of many arrows, and the _nauro_ fell at the child’s feet, pierced like a porcupine.

A vision of beauty dropped from the trees above, white-gold hair flowing, azure eyes glittering. She drew a great hunting knife, and with a casualness that made the tiny child instantly worship her, sliced open the throat of the monster with one stroke.

Then she looked down at them and regarded them with wide eyes, almost reverentially. “Elflings… there have not been elflings four thousand years,” she murmured musically in Sindarin.

And staring up into her azure eyes, he recognized her. From Doriath. “Oh, _muk_ ,” he muttered under his breath. Not that he had _killed_ her, but…

_Please, please, Eru, don’t let her recognize me._

She smiled luminously at him. “Where are your parents, little ones?”

“Don’t have any,” he replied in Sindarin.

“I’m hungry,” whimpered the tiny brun in Quenya.

“Shut up,” hissed his brother, elbowing him.

She heard it, of course. Hunter-sharp ears. She did not understand Quenya, but she looked at them intently, without hostility.

“You will have to come with me, then. My name is Teliaris. Teliaris Oropheriel.”

And she held out her still-bloody hand with a smile.

 

 

* * *

_Glossary_

Puntl [Qenya] – penis

Á puhta [Q] – imperative form of “to have coitus”

 

* * *

_Sorry for this entirely gratuitous ending, but I couldn’t help myself._

_So it’s done. When I first began writing this in Dec 2014, I thought it would be 6-8 chapters long and take me 3 months to write. Who could have guessed it would have a mind of its own and balloon into this thing? Writing the ending was like pulling teeth. Not happy with the last few chapters, but it’s the best I can do for now._

_Will add glossary and character lists (as per reader request) once I’ve recovered from writing this._

_To everyone who reviewed and commented and encouraged me, this fic finally wrapped up because of you._ Hantanyet órenyallo! _(I thank you from my heart)_ J

_[Note: For a long while after finishing this, I could not write a word. It’s now mid-2017, and I’ve just added on to this epilogue. I hope it wraps up the story of our traitor and hero better. Let me know what you think…]_


	48. Elvish Glossary

_[Note: Hi all! hope you didn’t miss the chapter before the epilogue as I published both at the same time._

_And yes, I’m aware there are niggly little typos and changes that could be made in earlier chapters, but I can’t do anything about them. Since the beginning of 2017 I’ve been having a terrible time publishing on AO3 and an even worse time making any edits.]_

**_At the end of each chapter I listed the Sindarin, Quenya, Gnomish and Qenya words and phrases making an appearance in the fic for the first time. Since a lot of readers are unlikely to remember words used ten or even five chapters earlier, I’m collating most of them here. Unfortunately, I didn’t document where I got them all from, but I think most of them are from the Realelvish (phrasebooks) and Parf Edhellen (dictionary) websites. I realized a few may be outdated as they were from the old Realelvish site, but I still like them._ **

**_Italics = Words that are my own invention, or wordforms/phrases I constructed myself with limited knowledge of grammar or appropriateness. Those that were checked with dreamingfifi of Realelvish are labelled as such. All the others—use at your peril._ **

**_A smattering of Westron and Khuzdul appears too._ **

 

_A cálë (Q) – light/illuminate (imperative)_

_A cuiva (Q) – awaken (imperative)_

_Á puhta [Q] – imperative form of “to have coitus”_

Á pusta (Q)  – stop

Abedithon le (S) – talk to you later

Adan (S) – mortal man

Adaneth (S) – mortal woman

Ada/Adar (S) – Daddy/Father

Alae (S) – behold/look there

_Alae Aman! Na vedui! (S) – Behold Aman! At last!_

Amatúlië [Q] – welcome (plural)

Amatúlya (Q) – blessed arrival / welcome (singular)

Amil (Q) - mother

Ammë (Q) – Mom/Mommy

Amya & Milyë (Q) – both also mean ‘mommy’/ ‘mama’

_Anar síla lúmenn’ omentielvo (Q) – The sun shines on the hour of our meeting._

_Anelya (Q) – my daughter_

Ánin apsene (Q) = forgive me

_Anor ar Isil (S) – sun and moon_

Apsa (Q) – meat, cooked food

_Apsenin-tyë [Q] – I forgive you_

_Aran vuin (S) – beloved king_

_Aranelya (Q) – my princess_

Aranion (S) – son of the king ( _suggested by dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com)_

Arathel (S) – sister of the king _(by dreaming fifi)_

Arimelda (Q) – dearest

Arquen (Q) – noble knight

Ásë nuhta (Q) – stop that

Atan/atani (Q) – mortal man/men

Atar (Q) – father

athon (S) – I will

Atto (Q) – Dad/Daddy

Atya (Q) – also means ‘daddy’

Bain (S) – beautiful

Balan (S) - “vala/power”, and there seems to be no Sindarin word for “maia”

Balc (Westron) - horrible

Belain (S) – plural of “balan”

_Calan a dhû (S) – day and night_

Cáno (Q) – commander, leader

Coranar/coranári (Q) – solar year/years

Cram (S) – cake

Cû (S) – bow

Cuio vê [woodelven Sindarin] – Live well

_Cundunya (Q) – my prince_

Daerada/Daeradar (S) – grandfather (a fanon creation that is incorrect, according to dreamingfifi. The accurate form is _Adar Adar nín_ )

Daernana/Daernaneth (S) – grandmother (same warning as for Daeradar)

Dandrin (S) – a “Dand” = “back-turner” = the Noldor’s term for those who began the journey to Aman but turned aside from it. Fairly insulting, I think.

Daro (S) - stop

dartho (S) – stay/remain/wait (imperative)

Díheno ammen (S) – forgive us (lower status to higher status)

Díheno nín (S) – forgive me [formal]

Eca (Q) – sod off (or even ruder than that)

ech (S) – you _(emphatic – suggested by dreamingfifi on realelvish.proboards.com)_

_Echuio, meleth-nín (S) – wake up, my love_

Edain (S) – mortal men (plural of adan)

edenith (S) – mortal women (plural of adaneth)

Edraith enni (S) – save me

Ego (S) – Get lost

Êl síla erin lû e-govaned wîn [exilic Sindarin] – a star shines on the hour of our meeting

_Ela! Lómion, Cundu i Ondolindeva [Q] – Behold! Lómion, Prince of Gondolin_

Eleni sílar lúmenn’ omentiengwó (Vanyarin Q) – the stars shine on the hour of our meeting (thanks to dreamingfifi for help with the plural translation)

elleth / ellith (S) – elf woman, elf women

emel (S) – mother

enquië (Q) – elvish week of six days

Ernil (S) - prince

Ernilvess (S) – Princess / prince’s consort/wife

Eruchîn (S) – children of Eru

Fae & rhaw (S) – spirit & body. It seems to me that the Quenya fëa and hröa are more universally used, thus I’ve opted for that in the narration.

Falmar (Q) – sea-nymph / mermaid

Falmaríni (Q) – sea nymphs / mermaids

Fëa (Q) – spirit

Fíriel (S) – female mortal

Fírimar (Q) – mortals

Galu (S) – goodbye / blessings

_Gamut sanu yenet, Gimli Glóinul (Khuzdul) – well met, Gimli son of Glóin_

Gi hannon (S) – “thank you” between familiars

Gi melin (S) – I love you

_Galwalas (S) – Galu [good fortune/blessings] + a [and] +glass [joy]. Used as a toast. I initially came up with “Glass a galu” (joy and fortune) but when consulted, dreamingfifi came up with the much more economical and elegant “Galwalas”]_

Glassen (S) – my joy (you are welcome)

Goheno nín (S) – Forgive me

Golodh (S) – Noldo (derogatory)

Golodhrin (S) – Noldorin (derogatory)

Gorn (Gnomish) – crap/shit

_Grodelin (S) – grod = underground; elin = stars. Glow-worms._

gwador (S) – sworn brother / brother not by blood

Gwarth (S) – betrayer, traitor

gwedyr (S) – sworn brothers / brothers not by blood

gweneth (S) – young maiden

Gwib (Gnomish) – penis/prick

Gwinig (S) – baby

Hanar (S) – brother

hanno (Q) – brother (informal version of háno)

Hantanyel (Q) – thank you (formal)

hantanyet (Q) – thank you (between equals/familiars)

Hara máriessë (Q) – stay in happiness (it is a greeting, but I use it as a toast)

Haru (Q) - grandfather

Haruni (Q) – grandmother

Harya mára lomë (Q) – have a good night

Heca (Q) – very rude “Be gone! Sod off!” (same as Eca)

Heldo (Q) – friend (male)

Heldor [Q] - friends

Herunya (Q) – my lord

Herinya (Q) – my lady

_Heruvinya (Q)  - my lords_

_Hest-nín (S) – my captain_

Hîr-nín (S) – my lord

_Hoithol (S… kind of) – a present participle form created from Gnomish hoitha, meaning “to have coitus”. You get the idea._

hröa (Q) – body

Hû (S) – dog

Huil (S) – bitch

iathrim (S) – people of the Girdle (Doriath)

Iavas (S) – autumn

idhrinn (S) – year cycle (equivalent of coranar)

Iell (S) – daughter

_Indo-ninya (Q) – my heart_

_Indya (Q) – my grandchild (indyo = grandchild, descendant)_

_Indyonya [Q] – my grandchild. (sometimes elided to indya. I didn’t want to use Noldorin Quenya inyo as inyonya sounded strange to my ear and inya means “female”)_

iôn (S) – son

Ion-nín (S) – my son

Ithron (S) – wizard

Ivanneth (S) – September

Khuzsh (Khuzdul) – friend

Lapatte (Qenya) - rabbit

Laurelotë (Q) – golden flower

le athae (S) – thank you, you are kind

Le hannon (S) – thank you (formal)

Le suilannon (S) – I give you greetings (reverential)

losto vae (S) – sleep well

_Lû veren [S] – occasion/time + festive/gay/joyous_

_Luhim [S] – lu = time/season, him = cool/cold_

mae de'evennin - Well met (said to more than one person)

Mae g’ovannen (S) – you are well met (informal)

mae le’ovannen (S) – you are well met (formal)

Mae tollen (S) – welcome

Maedol a mae g’ovannen (S) – Welcome and well met (informal)

_Maer (S) – good (I used it with the meaning “nice/well done/splendid”)_

Mai omentaina (Q) – well met

Maril (Q) – crystal

Mas ledhiam (S) – where are we going

Melda tár (Q) – beloved king

Meldanya (Q) – beloved

Melimë (Q) – darling/beloved

Melin sé (Q) – I love her (or him)

Melin tyë (Q) – I love you

Melindo (Q) – lover (male)

Melissë (Q) – lover (female)

Mellon vuin (S) – dear friend

Mellon iaur (S) – old friend

Melmenya (Q) – my love

merbin (S) – dark elves (with connotations of uncivilized, and rather derogatory I imagine)

Mereth Glyss Vinui (S) – Feast of the First Snows _(by dreamingfifi)_

Miros (Gnomish) – I use it for a type of wine in Aman

_Moratani (Q) – Móri = dark, atani = men – darkened races of men_

Moriquendë (Q) – Dark elf (singular)

Muk (Qenya) – crap/shit

Ná (Q) – yes, it is so

_Na manë (Q) – be good (imperative – behave yourself)_

Nad (S) - thing

Nae (S) - alas

Naethen (S) – “my sorrow” - sorry

Nana/Naneth (S) – Mummy/Mother

_Nairenya (Q) – “my sorrow”. I am sorry_

Nán alassea le-omentien (Q) – I am happy to meet you

naugrim (S) - dwarves

Nauro (Q) - werewolf

Nér (Q) – male elf

Neri (Q) – male elves

_N_ _ésaya (Q) – my sister_

Ni veren an le ngovaned (S) – It brings me joy to meet you

Nildë (Q) – friend [female]. A synonym for “heldë”.

Nís (Q) – female elf

Nissi (Q) – female elves

Novaer (S) –general goodbye/farewell [no+maer = “be good”]

No vaer i arad (S) -  may the day be good / have a good day             

No vaer i dhû (S) – may the night be good (good night)

Noldarë (Q) - mole

_Nolpaya (Q) – little mole_

Nostari (Q) – parents

ohtar (Q) – warrior

Ohtari (Q) - soldiers

_Ollo vae, perian (S) – Sweet dreams, halfling (hobbit)_

Órenya linda let-cenien [Q] – my heart sings to see you both

Orro (Q) – exclamation of dismay/disgust/horror

Oryat (Qenya) – badger

Othol (S) – stranger/guest

Otorno (Q) – sworn brother

Pen dithen (S) – little one

Pen gwain (S) – young one

Perelda (Q) – half-elven

Perian (S) – halfling/hobbit

Periain (S) – halflings/hobbits (plural)

Pitya (Q) – little one

Piuccar (Q) – blackberries

Puntl (Qenya) – penis

_Quiltyali_ _ë (Q) – quilta (“encircle”) + “tyalië” (“game”). It resembles the strategy board game Go._

ráca (Q) – wolf

Rainë (Q) - peace

Rangar (Q) – Númenorean unit of measurement for length, but I cannot find any elvish ones to use. One ranga = thirty-eight inches (3’2” or 96.5 cm).

rhîw (S) - winter

_Rhúnedain (S) – men of the east – Easterlings [okayed by dreamingfifi]_

Rîn (S) – queen

Rîs (S) – queen

Rocco (Q) - horse

Rusco (Q) - fox

Savo hîdh nen gurth (S) – Have peace in death (Rest in peace)

Selyë (Q) – a dimunitive of “daughter”. Rather like calling your grown child “baby”, I think.

Sennas (S) – guesthouse

sí (S) – here

suilad (S) – hello

_tain (S) – smiths (plural of tân)_

Tarí [Q] – queen

Taur (S) – can mean both forest and leader of tribes. I use it as the latter for one title of Oropher. By dreamingfifi.

Tawarwaith (S) – forest people

Thoron (S) - eagle

Tolen (S) – I come

Tyenya/ _tyenyar_ (Q) – dear kinsman/ _kinsmen_

_Úcarehína/úcarehíni (Q) – úcarë (sin) + hína (child) = bastard. Okayed by dreamingfifi, though she found the concept dubious_

Ú-chenion [S] – I do not understand

Ui (Q) – No / It is not so

Urco/urqui (Q) – orc, orcs

valarauco (Q) – balrog

venno/ _vennoya_ (Q) – husband / dear husband

vessë/ _vesseya_ (Q) – wife / dear wife

Vinyamo (Q) – young one

Wilwarin/gwilwileth (Q/S) – butterfly. I visualize this as the constellation Cassiopeia.

Winimë (Q) – baby

Yéni (Q) – elvish years (plural). One yén = 144 solar years.

Yonya (Q) – my son

_Yonyat [Q] – dual vocative noun form for “sons”. Okayed by dreamingfifi_

Yrch (S) – orcs

_Yuldacar [Q+Noldorin] – yulda [“drink”] + car [“building”]_


End file.
